


The Unspoken Dreams

by WahlBuilder



Category: E.Y.E.: Divine Cybermancy, Mars: War Logs, The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: (a little bit), Abduction, Alternate Universe, Artificial Intelligence, Body Horror, Case Fic, Crossover, Developing Relationship, Devotion/Judy - background, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Pseudo-noir, Sean/Zach (vaguely), Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-03 22:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Tenacity Williams is the best head-hunter in the system. He can find anyone.He is contracted to find a general who disappeared in mysterious circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It took me months to finish it. It is a story that has helped me go through very heavy days, and I have discovered a thing or two about my writing craft while creating this story.  
It is also entirely self-indulgent.  
Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 03 Nov: edited because I posted the wrong version of the text, I'm sorry.

The world is a wild array of yellows and greens with spots of orange—but mostly different shades and tints of yellow, with craters like sores and cupolae of the extractors like blisters. Jupiter looms large, barely noticeable through the sheer scale, like Olympus cannot be noticed until you actually realise it _is_ a mountain on the background and not just skies.

Tenacity darkens the front screen and leans back in the chair. Needle teeth prick his right hand gently, and he turns his attention to Temperance. ‘We’ll soon be there, Ranny.’ He pets the long upper jaw of the hound, and Temperance’s spine spikes rustle, settling down on the back. The lights of the dashboard catch on the sharp edges of the spikes, on Temperance’s teeth. ‘And you’ll have something to hunt.’

Temperance chitters, antennae moving.

Tenacity doesn’t have to talk to his hound, Temperance reads his state through their connection, but Tenacity finds it strange not to, and fuck everyone who says Temperance is just a mindless machine.

Sometimes—

A purple light blinks insistently on the periphery of Tenacity’s vision.

He settles back in the chair, keeping his right hand on Temperance’s head. He closes his eyes.

And opens them when a thin, delicate flower scent teases his senses.

‘Tea? Marzapan?’

He smiles, sitting up. Instead of the pilot chair of ‘Coccum Bled’, he’s reclining on many embroidered pillows, cool and silky. Instead of the eyesore that is Ganymede, he is greeted by the sight of colourful carpets and painted tiles and carved elegant pillars. A small table with legs bent like a flourish of a pen stands at his feet, a pitcher of filigree blue glass on it near two mismatched cups. A bowl with confectionery stands on another low table near a bowl of candied oranges. A wind chime tinkles on the edge of hearing, and a murmur of voices rises up like mist from the level below the balcony.

Dandolo fills both cups, long arms reaching to the tables effortlessly, then lifts green eyes on Tenacity. The merchant is wearing faded azure today. ‘I’m glad to see you here, my friend.’

Tenacity smiles. ‘I’m glad to be here.’ He accepts the cup when Dandolo gives it to him, and presses his palms flat to the warm clay. The cup is not Noctian: the clay is unglazed and unpainted but covered with pressed geometrical patterns that are slightly uneven and remind Tenacity of the Valley. A gift, it must be, both political and intimate. Tenacity has given up on trying to understand the intricacies of Noctian and Valleian relationship.

His hands, he hopes, will retain the warmth even when he opens his eyes back on his truck again.

‘I wish you were here in person,’ Dandolo says. There is a sadness in his tone, but tenderness also, without pressure.

Tenacity drinks the tea. It is sweet but it is a property of the tea itself, not some additives. The implant that allows him to enter Noctis this way, through the cyberlink, is an astonishing piece of technology unrivalled by anything else like it. Noctis is astonishing. ‘I wish so, too, but, work. You know how it is.’

Dandolo takes a cup of his own, turning it in his hand, then leans back, elegant on the red ottoman. ‘Yes. I know. How does being a Special Prosecutor feel, Tenacity?’

He snorts, reaching for a round chocolate candy. It melts on his tongue, rich and velvety like a lover’s kiss. ‘There was a tracker in the bracelet. I hope they didn’t think I would allow it to pass.’

‘It might have been a test.’

‘I think so. I don’t need supervision. Either I’m doing my job the way I need to, or they can fuck off.’ He catches himself too late before Dandolo winces, just slightly. Then Tenacity shrugs. ‘What’s the purpose of “immunity and means” otherwise?’ And he takes another chocolate sphere.

‘Still, for the Federal Government to approach you with this is…’ Dandolo shakes his head.

‘I’ll be careful.’

Dandolo gives him an incredulous look over a cup.

He laughs. ‘I’ll be careful enough for me. Temperance is here. I’ll be fine.’

‘I hope. It’s a delicate case and I don’t know why they would appoint someone outside their control. They might want to frame you.’

‘I’m not easily framable.’

Dandolo gestures vaguely, throws a look aside. He can’t be working simultaneously—Tenacity is sure Dandolo is dedicating his whole attention to this conversation.

‘The increased rate of suicides just when the case you are sent for happened…’ Dandolo shakes his head again. He is used to dealing with various crises, but he seems genuinely worried now, his brows slanted in a frown.

Tenacity takes another drink, letting the tea linger on his tongue. ‘Ganymede is the arse-end of Federation, and people live in domes. They get bored out of their skulls. And with the recent war, it’s not surprising.’

Dandolo glances at him. ‘Nothing surprises me anymore, my friend. It might be what you said—but might be something else entirely.’

Tenacity sighs. Yeah, he’s thought about _that_ particular possibility also. ‘It’s not _them_, merchant. Or maybe it is, then I certainly can do nothing about it other than try to stay alive.’ Despite attempting to sound flippant, he feels (in his truck where his physical body is) Temperance’s needle-teeth prickling his hand again in sympathy at his worry.

Dandolo must have noticed his distraction. He smiles in that demure, apologetic way that makes outsiders forget his position. ‘Forgive me, Tenacity. The trouble of this case is enough even without my anxieties. You have to go now?’

Tenacity’s hands grip the cup without his conscious thinking. ‘It will be hours yet, merchant. But I must be pulling you away from important matters.’

‘_You_ are an important matter, my friend. But I’m afraid my worries might affect our meeting.’ Dandolo puts down his cup, and Tenacity does the same. He knows he should leave, do the last preparations before landing, run through the case notes again, few as they are, and his own notes on Ganymede, through the news…

Dandolo touches the tips of his fingers to his lips and reaches over and presses them to Tenacity’s chest, green eyes looking right at him. ‘Stay in the Shadow, Tenacity.’

***

Ganymede is, indeed, an arse-end of the Federation. It would have been no different from asteroids with extracting facilities if not for three domes-arcologies. Someone, some time ago (Tenacity does have the official papers stating exactly who and how long ago, but he doesn’t bother with them) decided that it would be nice if, in addition to the automated extractors on the trailing hemisphere, there were domes for human life on the leading one. Despite the facts that on Ganymede, humans must be protected from strong radiation, the magnetic field of Jupiter, debris, and have gravitation generators because Ganymede’s g is too weak.

Population: 20 000, give or take, in all three domes combined.

The catch is, the extractors belong to Abundance—while the domes are Auroran. Of course it was established as a symbolic gesture: colonisation of a planet by the miracle of the two Guilds cooperating, for a change. What a fucking joke.

Tenacity wonders whether General Ortega’s disappearance is really all that unexpected.

Naturally, there’s only one port for human guests on the leading side (compared to three cargo ports on the trailing side in addition to three orbital lifts). Who would even want to come here? Even scientists visit the arcological research facilities not very often.

‘Coccum Bled’ communicates automatically with the AIs guiding it down from the orbit. Tenacity takes sneak peeks at their channel through Temperance, but it’s too fast for his understanding, though he snatches pieces of familiar commands. Nothing suspicious so far, and ‘Coccum’ isn’t shot down. Things are going pretty well—too well, but it might be just Tenacity’s paranoia.

He checks the Prosecutor’s bracelet-badge on his left wrist.

‘Enki’, Ganymede’s largest and oldest dome, isn’t pretty from up close. It is dark within with spare lights, in the middle of the night cycle.

Humans are funny creatures, and even the slightest changes in their environment: the amount of daylight, the intensity of it, humidity, noise levels, etc.—can lead to devastating results. Domes, especially those with so many things needed to be simulated, like the day-night cycle, are prone to disbalancing, and to having high suicide rates. And, being closed spaces—though so huge you hardly remember you are enclosed, sometimes—they are a breeding ground for panic and mass hysteria.

But, curiously, Ganymede has been even below the Federation average suicide rates for domed cities—a point of pride and bragging rights for Aurora. In domes belonging to Abundance suicide rates are much higher, try as Abundance might to conceal them.

Can it be that General Ortega has fallen victim to the epidemic also, though still haven’t been found? But he has learnt that the general’s disappearance, at least, has a witness. The statement has come from the message forwarded to him by his employer, the Federal Government,—a message for help and demand of an investigation penned in concise words that hide a great amount of grief and distress, authored by General Ortega’s wife, a prominent figure in her own right. At least one point of aid to his investigation.

‘Coccum’ lowers itself to the port mast, docking. Tenacity doesn’t like the fact that his truck will have to stay outside the dome, but the inside is held in an intricate balance, and they don’t have facilities to decontaminate his truck fully. At least he has the permission to use his truck on the planet outside the domes—a permission largely symbolic, considering his Special Prosecutor status, but important in the symbolism also, taking into account the current tensions between Ganymede and the Feds.

Tenacity wraps the scarf-blanket around his hips, ties the neckerchief, shoulders his crossrifle and a bag, and pets Temperance, commanding him to put on a disguise.

Temperance shakes himself, plates moving into new places, making him smaller, more compact—a barely-grown hound reaching little above Tenacity’s hip instead of his normal height when he hovers above Tenacity’s shoulder. Then a ripple goes over the bare metal surface, holo-skin covering it in waves and layers: soft tissue and powerful plates of the head, claws on the legs, the antennae, even the tongue. Temperance looks like a hound, feels like a hound, even smells like a hound, of dust and warm skin.

Just a hunter with his hunting dog.

The light by the door blinks green, indicating that they are good to go, and then the door opens with a hiss, and they step into the corridor leading to the decontamination chamber. Tenacity hates decontamination chambers, but it is necessary. It looks so pristine on the first glance, but he notices scratches—unscrupulous guests moving cargo?—and the leftmost of the three lights, now red, is dimmer than the other two.

‘You have an animal?’

He tries not let his annoyance show. ‘I’m certain I sent out the necessary documents. He’s inoculated by the federal standards.’

‘We weren’t told you’d have an animal!’ The disembodied voice sounds a little panicked. Tenacity feels pity: they are just doing their job. And it might prove to be a long, long day if they decide to go to their superiors.

He sighs and flicks his wrist, sending Temperance’s fake certificates into the port system. ‘Right,’ he drawls, ‘I know how it goes, bud. Bureaucracy, what can we do? Here are his docs. All good? I made sure they fit your requirements.’ And it cost him a fortune, but he needs Temperance to maintain a disguise. He’d rather people don’t know until the last moment that his companion is a S/HRMP hound, not a flesh-and-bone animal.

Minutes pass as he pretends to not be worried, scratching Temperance’s head idly (it feels so strangely small and on the wrong height, but both of them are used to putting up appearances).

‘All good. Commencing decontamination.’

Tenacity closes his eyes.

***

He sends his regards to Governor Ortega and asks for a meeting.

The governor has invited him to stay in the Ortega residence—but it must be a symbolic gesture also. At least, he hopes so. Surely, she wouldn’t expect him to stay on the premises while he’s looking for her wife, given the tensions not only between Ganymede and the Feds, but between Abundance and Aurora, and between the current Auroran government and the opposition, and in the opposition…

Surely, she didn’t expect him to.

So he politely declines the invitation, sending her information on his chosen place of stay—purely a symbolic gesture also, since he’s sure she would know anyway.

This hunt promises to be full of symbolic gestures.

He hates politics. He is a head-hunter: he finds his targets and brings them, dead or alive depending on the contract terms, to the client. Or sometimes, brings only a proof of death. His work involves investigating as necessitated by tracking. He’s absolutely not a politician.

He wonders whether the Feds needed exactly a head-hunter. To bring General Ortega to them—or to arrest her? Detain her? Kill her? Devotion Ortega is rebellious—but her wife Judy Ortega is even more so. Is he required to find dirt on Governor Ortega through General Ortega? Does all this come from the Federal Government to squash the unrest on Ganymede—or does it come from Abundance? General Grant? Some other force, the Secreta perhaps?

He _hates_ politics.

As the best head-hunter in the whole Federation, he has simple rules: he names the price, once, and the potential client can agree to it—or not agree, and then Tenacity is off. Non-negotiable. And they agreed, even though usually the Feds are so tight it goes right into sayings on several worlds.

He reminds himself that his thoughts can tie themselves into knots forever. He should just wait, observe, ask questions when needed, and then decide.

The arcology is built in a straightforward way: forty-two levels above the ground plus twelve underground levels, each designed pretty much similarly except for the folks living there. A physical manifestation of the vertical stratification—though here, if reports and news and posts on the infonet are correct, it is less severe that in the chaotic hive cities like New Eden or Ophir, like many Abundance cities in general. Certainly, nothing can compare to the Ophirian Slums.

Ganymede was a grand Auroran project, a beacon of scientific and engineering ingenuity and endeavours.

Shadowlair had been that also, once.

Tenacity boards an empty maglev, the map one the wall with blinking lights showing stops. His abode for the next few days—as few as possible, he hopes, but prepares himself for the worst—is in the middle strata of the hive, not too high up that he wouldn’t be able to listen to the streets, but not too low to be looked down upon by the local celebrities. An automated guest apartment complex ‘Xanthic’. Someone probably thought it very funny to name it so.

He doesn’t like relying entirely on the automated system—who, in a dome, would control such systems? a silly question,—but it is better than relying on a living person. He’s never been to Ganymede before and doesn’t trust anyone at all here.

On the outside, ‘Xanthic’ doesn’t look any different from any dwellings around. Tenacity finds it only because he has a precise marker for its location. Everywhere in the neighbourhood there is an appearance of progress and normalcy: sleek curved shapes, clean streets, and greenery, both Earthian and modified from other planets (he spots Martian pineapples growing on the roof of the lot beside ‘Xanthic’). Temperance hears children playing seven-hundred meters to the west. In a park. Throwing ball.

Temperance whines.

‘Hush, now, we are here to work. We must visit the governor first, boy, but maybe then we’ll get to walk, all right?’

Temperance chitters happily and licks his palm. Temperance’s receptors analyse and feed information to Tenacity immediately: composition, temperature—though after decontamination there’s not much left. Ganymede doesn’t get many guests here, but they are _thorough_. A spike in vigilance because of the general’s disappearance?

Politics again.

He sends his credentials to the system, and it chimes with a greeting and sends him the lock code and the number of his suite.

It is difficult to tell, given the automated nature of the building, how many people are staying here, if at all. He likes the relative anonymity of such lodgings—relative, because someone who can access the system can access everything—but at the same time it provides an obstacle sometimes. Tenacity doesn’t like being spied upon, but certainly needs reckon on other people.

Still, he doubts there’s anyone here. The locals have their own dwellings.

The rooms are clean, nothing exceptional—better than many places he’s ever stayed in: a living/guest room coupled with a kitchenette, a bedroom, a bathroom. Enough space for him, even though he doubts he would be staying here much.

Temperance trots into the bedroom, but Tenacity whistles to him. ‘No jumping on the bed yet!’

Temperance hangs his head theatrically, and Tenacity rolls his eyes, then takes a piece of jerky from a belt pouch and tosses it right into Temperance’s maw—not forgetting to dim the feed, to not be overwhelmed. He takes some of the jerky, too, chewing thoughtfully, then sends to Temperance a command to sweep the room.

**Right away.**

There is a camera, well-hidden but primitive, in the living room, though not in the bedroom or bathroom. How considerate. It doesn’t even record the sound. Tenacity leaves it be while Temperance makes several rounds through the suite, sniffing at everything like a flesh-and-bone dog would. Are the cameras a measure to spy on the off-world guests? Such closed societies—not to mention all the _politics_—are suspicious of outsiders. He can understand the security need for it also.

He checks the tap water—safe for drinking—and fills one of his flasks. He decides that going to the (presumably) grieving, distressed governor with a crossrifle wouldn’t be polite, so he leaves it in the bedroom. Then pats his thigh to call Temperance close, and they go out.

***

The residence of the governor and her wife is on the thirty-second level of the arcology. It is not the official governor’s residence. Making a statement by not accepting that place? Whatever the reasons, the one on the thirty-second level is their personal residence, and it must be quite a trip every day to the office, which is, naturally, on the forty-second level, right at the top.

There are people with him on the maglev. They throw openly curious, but mostly disgusted glances at him. They are wearing all sorts of clothes, though nothing extraordinary or expensive—but he sticks out, with the heavy leather jacket and his beard and his scarred mug. And the hound sitting politely by his feet.

A kid of indeterminate age stares at Temperance throughout the whole ride until they and their parent or guardian get off the maglev on the thirty-first level. Tenacity can’t help but smile to himself. Yes. Let them remember an unkempt big man and his dog.

He’ll make sure they remember only that.

There is a crowd in front of what he assumes is the Ortega residence (not that different from ‘Xanthic’ in architecture): maybe a hundred people, peacefully standing, chatting. He catches a scent of chicory and pineapple buns. The placards he glimpses are variations of _Return General Ortega!_, as though the general is arrested or the governor has kidnapped her own wife. But it is peaceful, and the enforcers scattered around are wearing only jackets without armour, chatting with the ‘protesters’ and sharing cups with chicory with them. Someone—the governor’s aide?—is handing out buns from a big baking tray.

Do protests really go like this? Or is Tenacity too used to violence?

The aide raises their head and their face brightens. They wave and make their way to him. They are much shorter than him, and overall smaller, with a halo of golden curls in a slight disarray and an otherworldly beatific smile and very light eyes. They are dressed in brown pants and a smart jacket with a blue Auroran pin on the left lapel. There are notches on their temples and a big metal disc in the centre of their forehead—of course they are augmented for their job.

‘Mr. Williams? I’m Mary Eleos, the governor’s secretary.’ The secretary has a pleasant voice slightly devoid of inflection. ‘The governor will, of course, meet with you now.’ They don’t give him a hand.

He doesn’t suspect disgust, perhaps it is a part of the local etiquette. Local _politics_. ‘Good to meet you, secretary,’ he drawls, ‘though I wish it were in better circumstances. This is Temperance, my hound.’

The secretary bends to Temperance, hands on thighs. ‘Hello, Temperance. Are you going to help in finding our general?’

Temperance chitters, leaning to the secretary.

Tenacity smiles. ‘Yes, he will.’ He wonders whether they are going to pat Temperance, like many people try to do.

They do not, but they coo: ‘What a good boy!’

Temperance wags his tail, analysing the scents coming from the secretary: clean plastiglass, woven woollen carpets with mineral dyes, ink (distilled water, synthetic pigment, binding), paper, the wood of a pen. Disinfectant. An hypochondriac?

The secretary gets them past the crowd and into the housing complex itself. As they walk on the soft carpets, Temperance scans the environments, mapping them, providing Tenacity with a view of the inner structure. Cameras, wall niches for cleaning robots—the standard lot. It becomes more interesting when they get to the governor’s office: it has several psi-dampeners and scramblers installed, though now inactive. On one hand, not surprising: the governor’s and the general’s security is paramount. But usually people worry more about hackers—and here, there are at least three powerful psi-dampeners. Overcautious? Expecting particular guests? Metastreumonic activity?

From what Tenacity has gleaned from the official and unofficial accounts, Ganymede doesn’t bear many psi-gifted individuals, though of course Secreta is keeping an eye—the E.Y.E., he chuckles to himself—on the planet as they do with everyone else.

Three psi-dampeners would probably be enough to hurt a knight. Fucking hell.

The office is spacious, but not cavernous, a place of everyday work: a desk of wood (locally-sourced, Temperance provides the analysis), cabinets and bookcases with a hexagonal pattern of glass panels, woollen carpets (local, too). The governor is sitting at her desk, working at her station. She looks up as they enter, frowns for a moment, then her face smooths out and she gets up.

Tenacity stops midway to the desk, allowing the secretary to come to the desk and announce, ‘Excuse me, Governor. Mr. Williams has arrived. With a hound, Temperance.’

Judy Ortega smiles in a weary way. ‘Thank you, Mary. Would you, please?’

The secretary nods and leaves (waving lightly to Temperance), and Tenacity notices a very fluid grace in their step and that the jacket… Temperance scans it. Ah. The secretary seems to be doubling as a bodyguard also. Very thoughtful and not at all unusual.

They close the doors after themself, and Tenacity turns to the governor, who goes to a sofa and armchair set with a low table and gestures. ‘Mr. Williams…’

He chooses the sofa, Temperance sitting down by his feet, scanning the surroundings and chittering quietly. The governor chooses the armchair.

They study each other.

Judy Ortega is very young. At twelve Auroran, she is the youngest planetary governor in the Federation history—and while Ganymede doesn’t have a big population, the whole weight of maintaining the balance between the Auroran arcologies and the Abundancean extraction places (plus some Alliance research facilities that the arcologies are hosting) is on her shoulders. Along with problems with the Auroran Dowser: Judy Ortega is one of the leaders of the opposition also.

And now, the disappearance of her wife.

The governor is wearing a simple dress in sombre dark brown, with a matching short jacket that has a slightly crumpled look, and her hair is pinned up in a severe bun—but the appearance doesn’t hide the thinness of her face or the shadows under her eyes. It can’t be that she sleeps much. Everything Tenacity has heard of her points out that she’s more likely to busy herself with work—and there’s plenty, it seems.

‘I’m sorry for your—’ he starts, but she shakes her head.

‘Just bring her home, Mr. Williams. Or at least some news. Not knowing is—’

‘Agony,’ he offers quietly. He feels the need to share a detail from his own life to comfort her. A politician, she is also human. ‘I know. Time ago, my older sister disappeared. A whole year of frantic looking… It was hell.’

‘Serenity Williams, isn’t it?’

He leans back. The governor is very good—something he expected. ‘Yes.’

The governor smiles, though it is as exhausted as the previous smile. ‘The Champion of Shadowlair and the whole of Aurora! I was such a fan when I was a girl. Not anymore, though.’

He wonders whether the governor might have been the one who requested him specifically, knowing his life story. He doesn’t advertise where he comes from—his clients usually don’t care anyway; his reputation built throughout the years speaks louder than his origins. But the governor has done her research. To lure him in? To make it personal? To force him into projecting that old pain here?

What other pains of his might she know about?..

‘Then let us not waste time,’ he says. ‘Could you tell me about that day when your wife was taken? Please try to remember as many details as you can, but if it becomes too much, we will take a break.’

She puts a hand on the armrest, taps her fingers, looking to the left. Then at him. ‘What exactly do you wish to know, Mr. Williams?’

‘Everything,’ he repeats patiently. ‘First of all, why were you on the trailing side?’

She licks her lips. ‘It was because of the Arrangement.’

‘The Arrangement?’

‘Yes. This is how we call the set of agreements with Abundance. You see, this is a delicate matter…’

He sighs. Fucking politics. ‘I see—but I’d like you to tell me everything, maybe short of divulging governmental secrets,’ he looks sharply at her, ‘however, as the Special Prosecutor…’ He lets it hang in the air. A reminder, not a threat. Yet.

‘Yes. Forgive me. It might be difficult to explain, that is all.’

Considering that Judy Ortega is quite famous for her passionate, very eloquent speeches in the Federation Parliament, he doubts it—but then, he’s an off-worlder and she’s high-strung and worried. Which he can use to his advantage.

‘You see,’ she starts again, not looking at him, ‘there are Auroran P.O.W.s on Ganymede.’

Fuck. He hasn’t heard or read about it, so it might be recent—or indeed, a delicate matter. So delicate it is suppressed in the infonet, even in the Underworks. He should dig into the darker parts, then.

‘On the trailing side.’

‘The Abundance side, yes.’

He frowns. ‘But there are only automated extractors there.’

‘They do have facilities for mining personnel, for inspections or when there is a need for human oversight when a new place is being considered.’

‘They keep Auroran P.O.W.s there? They make them work?’

She shakes her head, starts tapping the armrest again. ‘The Agreement says they are not supposed to be forced into labour, only do something they consent to until another agreement is signed for extradition to Auroran territories. And according to the Agreement, as the governor, I am entitled to visiting them once in a while—’

‘How long a while is it?’

‘Once a turn.’

Seven standard days. ‘And you use it?’

She looks at him, licking her lips again. ‘Not every turn. It is a dangerous, lengthy journey, and I do have my duties here.’

‘How is it dangerous? Can’t you go through orbital means?’

‘Mr. Williams, we are not poor, but not exactly rich so that we can waste money and fuel and other resources just to send me once every few weeks from here to the other side.’ Her voice becomes blazing with the fire he’s heard from recordings of the speeches.

‘I simply asked a question,’ he says in a neutral tone.

The governor’s face softens and becomes more apparently exhausted. ‘Forgive me. I’m on edge.’

‘It’s all right. So you don’t travel by orbit. What then? Rovers?’

‘Yes.’

‘How is it dangerous, then?’

‘Besides quakes and volcanic activity, there are raiders.’

‘Raiders. Out in the open, on Ganymede.’

Governor Ortega smiles, something more alive on her face. ‘People adapt to all kinds of conditions and situations.’

‘True,’ he agrees. He is the living proof of that. ‘Where do the raiders come from? How serious of a threat are they?’

‘Some of them are from the leading side, running away from domes or taken from them. I assume some come from off-world: we monitor the orbit, of course, but only on our side, and though Abundance has monitoring systems of their own, there are vast parts of land where nothing lives, and if someone lands there, we rarely bother with wasting resources on evicting them. The planet usually takes care of them.’

‘How?’

‘Quakes and volcanoes, Mr. Williams, as I said, and radiation, and all sorts of things. Ganymede is a harsh world.’

‘And has a hardy people,’ he notes.

She smiles without warmth. ‘You don’t need to butter your way with flattery, Mr. Williams.’

‘I’m not trying to. You spent some time in learning about me—but most of the Federation knows about _you_, Governor Ortega,’ he says seriously. ‘And your wife.’

Her lips press into a thin line. ‘Are you implying it might be because of myself?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m not implying anything. So, you went with your inspection of the prisoners’ conditions… Why, exactly? Was it routine or for some particular reason?’

‘The latter. Rumours have spread about disappearances of prisoners.’

‘How have the rumours spread? Where do they come from?’

‘The prisoners themselves. They are allowed limited communication within the Ganymedian network.’

Tenacity tries not to show surprise and dismay. ‘Limited’ means nothing for a skilled person, and someone among the prisoners can be very skilled. Limits are meant to be bypassed.

The governor must sense his surprise, because she says, ‘It is part of the Agreement.’

Ah. Otherwise, he would be very doubtful that Abundance would allow any of her prisoners to communicate with the outside world. What a publicity stunt.

‘Allow me to reiterate: you come based on the information from the prisoners’ messages stating that some of them disappear… Are there any overseers from Abundance in the camps?’

The governor nods. ‘Yes. Each camp has several. I wrote to them, and they confirm disappearances that has started to happen recently.’

‘Have they communicated with their superiors?’

She looks aside. ‘Not… yet. We have agreed that they wouldn’t do it until my inspection.’

He waits. Patiently.

The governor sighs. ‘It is a part of the Agreement that the extracting facilities, while belonging to our kindred Guild,’ her tone, her face don’t show even a hint of sarcasm, but Tenacity suspects it’s still there, ‘are ensured by our side to operate smoothly, except for major engineering—’ She waves. ‘You probably don’t want to know the convoluted details?’

‘Unless you think it is necessary for the case at hand.’ He’d probably need to get into the Agreement anyway. Bloody fucking politics.

‘The thing is, the facilities themselves are in our care, more symbolically than anything else, while belonging to Abundance—and likewise, the prisoners are in Abundance’s care while being our nationals. Sudden, unexplained disappearances… Mr. Williams, you probably understand that certain factions would be eager to seize the opportunity to break the unstable truce.’

Oh yeah. Fuckers.

‘I understand. So, prisoners supposedly disappear, and camp overseers confirm it. You go on inspection to make certain it is not your fault and not Abundance’s fault—but en route to the facility…’ He looks at her expectantly. ‘By the way, why was your wife with you?’

‘As a part of the escort. We’ve brought a company, in case a rescue would need to be launched immediately.’

‘But why was bringing General Ortega necessary? A captain would suffice, I imagine. A major. Did you consider it might have been a trap? Bringing both the planetary governor _and_ the commander of the PDF was… shall I say, unwise.’

The governor pales. ‘It was an acceptable risk. Her presence and mine would doubly reassure the people that the situation is under control.’

So they did consider it.

‘Who knew about the trip?’

‘The closest circle.’

So fucking vague. All right, governor. ‘And off-world?’

‘Nobody. As I said, it was a delicate matter, and we have decided to postpone sending out a message off-world until the results of my inspection shed light upon the events.’

‘So, it was not exactly public. But people on the planetary network must have caught the rumours, too—that’s how rumours are. They tend to spread whether you want it or not. Let me be frank, Governor: both you and your wife have, jointly and separately, many enemies. And even if your route was concealed, it is not that easy to hide— A company, that’s what, around six rovers?’

‘Seven,’ she says in a clipped tone.

‘Seven rovers. Ganymede is a pretty big place, but there are only three domes and two distinct though connected planetary networks. You were, pardon my Lairian, fucked from the start, if anyone wanted to make a drop on you.’

It’s a rather blatant provocation, and he’s certain the governor has caught it as such also.

‘Mr. Williams,’ she says evenly, but her fingers are digging into the armrests, ‘if you keep trying to bait me…’

He raises his hands. ‘Forgive me. I am but a head-hunter and a bastard.’

‘And now you are insulting my intelligence.’

He lowers his hands. There is no smile on the governor’s face—but there is an echo of it in her voice.

‘Mistress Ortega. The investigation of the prisoners’ disappearances is not my job. My job is to find your wife, and frankly, I don’t want to get involved in any kind of politics, but this case entails it. I need to know everything, even if it might not seem related to the case to you. Please forgive my interruption. Your mission conditions might have been compromised.’

‘We did take precautions: three rovers set out from “Enki”, two more from the other domes each. I didn’t know in which of them Dev— General Ortega was.’

‘Did you know who was in the other rovers at all?’

‘People handpicked by General Ortega.’

‘But were you _certain_ those other rovers were really filled with those people?’

‘Yes. They exchanged codes with our rover that they had been sent just moments before setting off.’

‘Very clever.’ Divide and conquer, nobody knows everything, everybody knows something. Guerrilla organisation rather than an official one. But then, there are particular rumours about the Ortegas…

‘I saw the schedule and the approximate timeline of events you sent me, Governor. Could you relate the sequence to me again? You might remember some details.’

‘We have left at five-hundred standard.’

‘Five-hundred.’ Being married to a soldier does things to your vocabulary, Tenacity guesses. ‘Almost an hour later than planned, according to your initial schedule.’

‘Yes. One of the rovers had problems with filters.’

‘Couldn’t you leave it behind?’

‘We decided not to. We needed each soldier. The rover was fixed, and we set out. We changed formation at irregular intervals and patterns. Communication was by radio, but through coded clicks.’

They treated it like a covert military operation. By the spirits.

‘How long, all things considered, did you estimate your journey would take?’

‘Eight hours at full speed with no delays. We were planning to reach the closest camp—Nineteen—and then use the tunnels connecting it with other facilities. It would make movement much faster.’

‘Do you have permission from Abundance to use the tunnels?’

‘Yes, for personnel transportation and in case of emergencies.’

‘Such as?’

‘An extractor collapse, a major malfunction.’

‘Of course. Please, continue.’

‘Two hours before reaching the camp we sent a message about my visit to the overseers at Nineteen.’

‘They didn’t know beforehand?’

‘They are not supposed to. They knew I would be coming, but didn’t know when exactly. My visits are to be unexpected, as per the Agreement.’

‘To prevent foul play?’

‘Yes. We were in vicinity of the camp, when…’ She falls silent, her gaze distant.

‘Take your time,’ Tenacity says, trying for a gentle tone. Then Temperance puts his head on the governor’s lap.

She looks down and smiles. ‘May I pet him?’

‘Sure.’

She puts a hand carefully on his head plates, and Temperance pushes his head into her palm.

‘It felt like our rover ran into something,’ the governor says after a while, her gaze on Temperance. ‘The area around facilities is regularly swept at the radius of five kilometres, so it couldn’t be a boulder. The system read like the tracks ran into a chasm—but there couldn’t be a chasm. The driver opened a channel to other rovers—but it was filled with… metallic screeching, like the air being torn apart. I stumbled out, saw figures in raider-looking gear, but no vehicles except for ours. A soldier made a shot… My suit simulated the sound. It was so loud. I saw Dev getting out of another rover, maybe three hundred meters away… I could recognise her anywhere, even in the full suit. She raised a handgun and a monofil knife—then a high screech again filled my ears, even though my radio was turned off. I fell… I _think_ I fell and went unconscious, but briefly regained my faculties, I saw someone dragging bodies away. A black figure, huge, bigger than human, like in bulky armour, but somehow… fuzzy? Then everything went black—but it felt like I continued hearing that screech even while out. The next time I came to, I was in the camp’s infirmary.’ She falls silent, stroking the seams of Temperance’s plates. Temperance chitters quietly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tenacity says.

The governor shakes her head. ‘I don’t need it, Mr. Williams, although I thank you. I just… need to know.’

‘Why do you think that she was taken?’

‘Some soldiers were killed. She wasn’t among them.’

‘Did anyone else disappear?’

‘Yes. A dozen people counting Dev. I’ll send you their profiles if you need them. And you can request any other information from Mary and she will forward it to you.’

‘I’ll be obliged. What about others in the group? What did they see?’

The governor seems to get herself under control, her tone business-like: ‘Their accounts align with mine. I will send them to you also. The facility didn’t notice anything suspicious before the arrival.’

‘And the rovers?’

The governor’s face shifts into an expression Tenacity cannot immediately put a name to. Her brows knit slightly, but her lips are parted, ready to form a word, it’s that she cannot _find_ that word yet. Her hand has stopped on Temperance’s head. ‘They don’t move.’

‘Are they damaged that badly?’

‘No. They simply… don’t move, even when powered or attempted to be towed. There is nothing wrong with them, but they won’t budge.’

Fuck. This certainly is unusual, for all the fuckery Tenacity has seen in his life. He doesn’t like it. ‘How did you return?’

‘We requested a train from “Enki”—it is a more regular method of communication with the facilities of the trailing side.’

Tenacity strokes his beard. He can’t think of anything else right now, and the interview has been going on for long enough already. It is exceptional that such a busy person would devote to him so much of their undivided attention—which shows just how serious this is. This is the governor’s wife, after all, not some stranger.

‘I think this would be all for now, Governor Ortega. I’ll look through the additional files when you send them.’ He gets up.

‘What will be your next move, Mr. Williams?’

‘I am not obligated to tell you—but, I will need to see the place of disappearance myself, especially the rovers. Please provide me with contacts of other members of the expedition.’

‘Thank you. I will.’ Her shoulders fall slightly. She strokes Temperance’s head again, and he chitters.

Her _wife_.

He looks at her bent head, her slouched figure. ‘Governor… I’m sorry this is happening to you. I’ll do everything I can, and as you can see,’ he sticks out his wrist where the black bracelet gleams, ‘I can do a whole bloody lot.’

She lifts her eyes at him. She looks so, so young and exhausted. ‘Thank you, Mr. Williams. I hope you succeed.’

He leaves the Ortegas’ residence burdened with thoughts. There’s a bench just outside, and he sits down, starts rummaging in a belt pouch—but realises that the locals might not approve of him smoking, so he skips the cigar case.

It feels like the governor was prepared for their little interview: there was barely any hesitation in answers, once they went over the question of state secrets. She probably rehearsed it, made a list of topics he’d be most likely to cover. Fuck, he forgot to ask whether it was her who requested him.

Why did he even take the contract?..

Because it sounded interesting, like a real challenge. The pay is good, he assumed there would be problems so he named a huge price—but it’s not just that. It’s his reputation. He can find _anyone_.

He needs to think on everything the governor has told him, and the things she hasn’t told him, analyse the data Temperance has collected during the interview, and ask the locals.

And there is a good place to do all these things.

His hand it prickled by needle teeth again, Temperance’s black eyes staring right at him.

He sighs. ‘I promise it won’t be much, Ranny. And you will nudge me when I’m approaching my limits, yes?’ Why did he train his dog to monitor alcohol levels in his blood?..

Temperance huffs, warm air tickling his palm, as though not completely convinced, but lets him go in favour of following a turtle that’s walking in the grass. Tenacity rubs his palm, though there is no blood.

‘You say funny things, Mr. Williams, I like you.’

He smiles at the governor’s aide. ‘Secretary! I’m glad you like me.’ He moves to the side of the bench, silently inviting her to sit down.

The secretary does, watching Temperance. Temperance pokes the turtle with a paw, but the turtle ignores him completely, melancholically chewing grass as it goes.

‘I hope you find the general. Governor Judy isn’t herself from worry.’

‘I hope so, too. Could you tell me a little about them? Their relationship, how they were right before the general’s disappearance—that sort of thing.’

The secretary looks at him sharply, pins him with a gaze of light-blue eyes. ‘Do you suspect that the governor might be involved or might even be the culprit?’

He shakes his head. ‘I must apologise: that was a rather inelegant attempt to make you talk. Honestly, I don’t suspect anything right now—but I must consider every possibility before I start eliminating those that don’t fit the facts. Even the possibility that the governor might be, as you put it, the culprit.’

‘May I deny you answers on the basis of it being unethical to discuss the governor’s private life?’

‘No, you may not. Sorry.’ He flicks the bracelet.

The secretary’s gaze turns to it briefly. ‘They love each other.’

‘It doesn’t mean anything. People do all sorts of horrible things while claiming love.’

‘I know. But it’s real love here. They support each other through the worst and the best—and it’s not easy these days for Ganymede.’

He perks up. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Oh, the same thing as before. The Federal Government accuses Ganymede of separatism, General Grant doesn’t like that General Ortega is popular here, and Governor Ortega’s demands of changes and proposals of policies meet strong resistance.’

‘Has it become worse recently?’

‘With the suicides and the raiders threat to the trailing side…’

‘Raiders?’ he prompts.

She doesn’t nod, doesn’t fidget, her voice remains monotonous, but her words betray a deep-seated worry. ‘Yes.’

‘What do they threaten with? Do they threaten to attack the extractors or the prisoners?’

‘Usually they try to rob the train off of supplies, but they don’t get close to the extractors. Three sols ago there emerged a group that demands release of the prisoners and separation from the Federation—or they would stop the extraction.’

Fuck. ‘Have you notified the Feds? Why didn’t the governor tell me about this?’

The secretary pins him down again with her impenetrable gaze. ‘It must have slipper her mind.’

He lets the topic of the new raiders slide for now. ‘I see. Tell me, do you know the reason for the wave of suicides?’

‘It’s difficult to say. It must be many factors, maybe a change in Jupiter’s magnetic field.’

‘The last question: were there any ransom demands?’

‘No.’

‘I see. Thank you, secretary. I won’t waste more of your time. Contact me if something comes up regarding this case.’

‘I will. Good-bye, Mr. Williams. Good-bye, Temperance!’ She waves at the dog.

‘Say good-bye to the secretary, Temperance.’

The hound chitters, and the secretary smiles.

He decides to go to a bar tomorrow, and work with documents now instead. He isn’t sure he can handle any more conversations right now.

They head back to ‘Xanthic’. A warning about a JMF instability is issued on the planetwide network. It takes him a moment to decipher it as the ‘Jupiter Magnetic Field’. A stabilisation is expected tomorrow. He can fly, but he’d rather not rely on visuals alone on an unfamiliar planet. So that means all travel is postponed for now.

Upon thinking, while he makes himself a cup of chicory, he requests JMF data for the past twenty sols and analysis of whether or not the data is anomalous.

It is not exactly his job to find out why General Ortega disappeared, or who has done it. He just needs to find her—or her remains. But he has to get to the why and who and how in order to find her.

And there are so many why’s.

He sits down on the bed, downs the bitter chicory in one go. Something to warm himself up with, while the stronger stuff is out of the question. He leaves the cup on the bedside table. The bed is not exactly the softest, but it’s clean, better than many places he’s visited. The sheets are crispy, and the duvet is fluffy.

‘Ranny.’

Temperance shakes himself, stretches, the disguise melting away, the plates working more freely. He expands to his usual size, flops on the floor in front of Tenacity, though _still_ towers, and puts his head into Tenacity’s raised palm.

Physical contact is not required, but both of them enjoy it when Tenacity scratches under Temperance’s chin.

He requests analysed data and brings up things concerning the governor herself. Adrenaline, blood pressure, pupils size—she was scared, and Tenacity is impressed with how good she was holding up. Fear for herself or her wife? Her position? It was visceral. Tenacity thinks it’s more likely the fear for her wife. Personal, but not the fear of a guilty conscience.

He pulls up data on the secretary. Calm, even serene—interesting, but combined with other data, like the reduced gesticulation and monotonous voice—not surprising. A personal feature. Both the secretary and the governor have communication implants, and the secretary has subdermal armour, quite dense and high quality. Definitely a bodyguard. And perhaps an off-worlder: she sounds to Tenacity like a fellow Lairian, but with some peculiarity that he can’t quite place—but then, he hasn’t been to Shadowlair in years.

He lies down on the bed, and Temperance, folding plates tighter to not damage the bedding, lies down by his side, his head on Tenacity’s chest, the mattress dipping enough that Tenacity almost slides closer to him.

Tenacity closes his eyes and opens them again on a mind map. Murky figures, vague shapes dance at the edge of his vision. It’s a non-space, and he will make a back-up copy in the Noctian Palace. Dandolo has the emergency key to access the latest mind map, should Temperance send a message that something happened to Tenacity. A mind map is useful when he has a moment to slow down and think. He doesn’t have anyone but his dog to share his musings with. Not anymore.

In the distance, an orb of various shades of yellow and spots of green and rusty orange glows, and Tenacity walks towards it, Temperance by his side.

‘Such a strange world, isn’t it,’ Tenacity murmurs, looking at Ganymede.

**Yes.**

‘Upload data on JMF.’

**Uploading**.

The giant orb of Jupiter appears, with the magnetic lines both of Jupiter and Ganymede and the counter of sols so that data can be picked for any sol. Tenacity rescales Jupiter. ‘Upload analysis when it’s complete.’

**Acknowledged.**

Temperance’s voice isn’t heard, it’s like Tenacity’s own inner voice. Difficult to determine the pitch and timbre.

The portrait of General Ortega pops up nearby, and a marker appears on the Ganymede globe.

‘So, we have, as our suspects, the new raiders, the old-school non-political raiders, the prisoners, Abundance, the Feds, Aurora, and the governor herself.’ All listed entities appear around General Ortega’s portrait, orbiting her like planets their star.

Tenacity thinks on it, and makes ‘prisoners’ smaller. ‘Calculate probability.’

**30 %**.

‘Yeah. Thought so, too, Ranny. But it might change when we add more data, so don’t erase them yet. Do you have anything to add?’

The secretary’s portrait is added to the star system.

Tenacity tilts his head, studying it. ‘Really?’

**Yes.**

‘Why?’

**Mary Eleos didn’t exist until a year ago.**

Fuck. Two standard years, that’s very recent. ‘“Eleos” means… “mercy”, right?’

**Correct.**

‘Run a search on anyone fitting the description and include “mercy” in the query in all languages in use.’

**Exclude Noctis?**

‘No. Search Noctis also, and send description to Dandolo.’

**After the magnetic storm has passed. Estimated search time: three days.**

Fuck.

**Can’t do faster, Tenacity. Need to protect you. **

‘All right. Good boy. Commence the search.’ He looks through the list again and sighs. ‘This is too many. I can’t do anything right now, we have too many facts and too little system to them. We need to ask the locals and see the site.’

**Agreed. Go to sleep now, Tenacity.**

‘Yes. I will. Good night, Temperance.’

**Good night_._**


	2. The First Dream

The Wolf was running through the red forest. He didn’t remember how he got there. He was fearful. He was scared. He was panicked. He was _terrified_.

The trees were tall and red-scented and dripping resin, thick like drying blood. He couldn’t see the sky beyond the branches high above, curled like claws, but felt that the sky was dark and the dawn was far away—nothing more than a dream. The ground beneath the Wolf’s feet was covered with soggy wet moss, and when he glanced back, he saw that the moss remembered his steps and filled them with something that looked deep-red and glistening, and smelled so, so sweet.

He swallowed his saliva and resumed his running.

He couldn’t see what was beyond the trees, only that there was light somewhere ahead—not like the sun but like something burning. Was it the gentle flame of a lamp by a forest cabin? Was it the light of a camp fire? Or was it a forest blaze, all-consuming? The light of the dusk, lost just like the Wolf was? He couldn’t say.

It was so quiet, if not for his squelching steps and his heavy panting and the thrum of his heart.

He continued running.

He scratched his shoulder against a bole, and the sweet scent deepened, calling to him—and he ran, ran, ran, ran.

And he ran to where the light was. Blinded, he rolled on the ground, in the sodden moss, then tried to get up. When he dared to open his eyes, he saw that the light was of a camp fire. A single figure sat near the fire, the light red and shadows red on them.

The Human got up, noticing the Wolf. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No!’ cried the Wolf, trying to catch his breath. His limbs were trembling. ‘Help me! I am not a wolf, I am a man! I don’t know why I am like this, I don’t know where I am, I don’t understand!’

The Human circled him, humming a song that sent shudders through the Wolf—he couldn’t say whether from disgust or fear, comfort or pleasure.

‘I don’t know,’ the Human said at last. ‘You look like a wolf to me, claws, fangs, fur and all.’

‘But I’m not! I beg you, believe me!’

‘It might be some mistake. See, maybe you are a man—but men don’t have claws like this. Perhaps if I remove them, you will walk like a man again.’

The Wolf shuddered. ‘I… I don’t know. Perhaps it can work.’

The Human came closer, humming, and the Wolf shuddered again. It felt like the Human was scratching up his spine.

‘Don’t worry. It will be quick.’

The Wolf hesitated, then sat down and held out his paws.

The Human gripped the claws—and yanked.

The Wolf screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

Tenacity tries to get himself into a chatty mood—but the fucking dream won’t leave his head. He drops his gaze into his glass of brown whiskey, or whatever it is. He doesn’t even have the mood to drink.

It’s already vague, that dream, and he wishes he could remember all of it, to let it go completely—but everything he remembers is a sticky feeling, something red—and pain. Excruciating, hot and cold at the same time—but also liberating. It was _ecstatic_.

Fuck. It must be this case and the long travel and this magnetic instability and what the fuck else. The instability seems to have been happening often lately, judging by the analysis Temperance has gotten. No wonder people die from suicide here.

He has to get a grip.

‘Are you the guy who’s trying to find the general?’

There. A good opportunity for—

When he turns to the owner of the voice, for a moment he can’t speak. It’s not that the light in the bar is especially flattering—but he is hit nonetheless, right into his damned, shrunken heart, with a longing for home, the longing so deep that he might run right out and jump into his truck and head to that rusty rock. How can someone have eyes like this? The reddish gold of sunlight and the glimmering, blazing blue of the dawn sky…

Tenacity swallows, and tries to remember words, then gulps from his glass without noticing the taste.

The mismatched eyes follow his glass.

‘And what if I am?’ Tenacity rasps.

‘He just wants a job!’ the bartender calls.

‘Shut up, Ethan.’ There is no heat behind the words, though.

The bartender snorts.

The stranger turns to Tenacity again. ‘I’m Roy.’ Doesn’t hold out his hand. Caution? Deliberate or innate rudeness? A provocation? Or simply doesn’t like touching?

Tenacity studies him more. His skin with a rough tan of someone used to working outside. His voice scraped, low. A thick leather jacket with button-on sleeves, obviously handmade, metal plates sewn onto sleeves over the forearms. The neck covered by layers of a dusty, worn scarf. An undercut, very careful—and a messy stubble. No scars on the face, but it means shit. Except for, oh, notches on the temples. Augmented—but who isn’t?

The stranger tilts his head to the right shoulder. Tenacity feels like he’s being measured, analysed just as he’s been analysing. ‘Done with your inspection?’

Tenacity leans back. Drawls, ‘Maybe. How do you know about me?’

The stranger—Roy, just Roy—rolls his eyes. As dramatic as Tenacity’s drawl—but is it as fake? ‘Come on, big guy, you are obviously an off-worlder—’

‘As though _you_ are not, Roy!’ the bartender chimes in.

Tenacity definitely doesn’t like that this talk is out in the open.

‘Shut it! But yes. And the infonet is brimming with gossip. The whole dome is.’

That’s _fast. _He’s been here only a day. ‘Roy. If you know what I am and what I’m here for, why do you think I would need _you_? I work alone.’

He notices a highball in front of Roy, half-empty and, judging by the scent, it’s just carbonated water. Roy doesn’t fidget, but doesn’t exactly meet Tenacity’s eyes. It’s like he wants to, but his gaze keeps sliding off. ‘I can fight. Can repair things.’

‘Can’t find work here?’

‘Need a work permit. And it’s a pain to get. But I don’t mean to stay here, so why bother.’

Tenacity can read between the lines. Ganymede is a small world, even though it’s the biggest moon in the system. Their governor might be a radical firebrand, as some conservatives paint her, but people are closed-off, suspicious of any outsiders. This isn’t Noctis.

How did Roy get here? Why? Running from authorities, responsibilities, duties? From family?

Tenacity isn’t here to solve mysteries, to get involved in politics, he is not here to rescue anyone or help anyone. He’s here just to fulfil the terms of his contract, even though he might have to do all those things. But he knows what it’s like—to not have a place, to not belong, to feel like the world is out to get you.

‘This is my hound, Temperance.’

Temperance—in disguise—trots towards Roy.

Roy doesn’t recoil, but he has a still, frozen face. Afraid of dogs? But then he reaches his right hand, and Temperance licks it. Roy smiles. His hand tastes of dust and something tangy and metallic, and it stings a little. It seems he can work with electric appliances.

‘I like animals.’

‘His Highness has finally found a friend.’

Every neighbourhood has _these_. Even high-class places: they have these, but better-dressed and they don’t harass people in bars, they harass people at parties. Bastards. Tenacity doesn’t turn to them, he watches Roy instead.

Roy tenses up, gaze slipping over Tenacity’s shoulder. ‘Fuck right off.’

‘Is this how His Highness supposed to talk?’

They are standing right behind Tenacity, but he doesn’t need Temperance’s help to smell the reek of cheap alcohol and bully. Temperance growls.

‘And with a pretty puppy! Here, puppy, puppy…’

If they… Four, no, five of them. If they had any brains left, they would have recognised a Martian hound—and even when pups, they are deadly.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Heard you were doing repairs around here again, Highness, and without a permit. Driving our honest workers out of work.’

‘I do it for those who can’t afford your “honest workers”. Report me if you want.’

‘We will—but before that—’

Ethan shouts, ‘If you fucks intend to fight, do it outside!’

Roy pushes his glass away, leaves a few bills. ‘Sorry, Ethan. I’m leaving.’

‘I’m not,’ Tenacity growls. He turns to them.

Yes, five good-for-nothings, swaying on their feet. Bullish and bullying. How long have they been harassing Roy? It is certainly not the first time. Has it been just bullying—or something other than words? ‘But it won’t do to destroy the premises, so indeed, let us go outside if you so wish.’ He pays for his whiskey and leaves a double tip, then goes out.

They follow, stupid fucks.

Roy is already there, shoulders squared. Hasn’t left, even though Tenacity’s theatrics were meant to stall these fuckers a little and give Roy an opportunity to leave. Stubborn. Stubbornness gets people killed. Should he brush Roy off just for that? He can think on it later.

‘His Highn—’

‘His name is _Roy_,’ Tenacity says, keeping his tone amiable, and drives a fist into the gut of the closest of them. His blood is boiling, his nostrils flare, taking in that sweet, sweet scent of fear, of the blood in their veins, eager to be let out, set free.

He bares his teeth and lets himself go.

Roy joins. It takes them just a few moments to adjust to each other—and they fit so, so well.

He growls and kicks feet from under one fucker, and another is thrown right to his waiting maw. He sinks needle teeth into the flesh, revelling in the sweet, sweet taste—but then he notices where others move… No, no, he won’t let them. He throws himself between them and the other—and lets out a howl, plates flaring, assuming his true size.

They scramble away, and he almost gives chase—but a voice calls, ‘Tenacity?’

He shakes his head. Something flows into his eyes, and he tries to wipe it off. It feels sticky. It smells sweet.

‘Shit, no, no, come here.’

He blinks away the haze, but the red in his left eye is _not_ a part of his hunting rage.

Roy is standing so close, and Tenacity focuses on him, breathing in: leather and that metallic scent. Like a storm, like an electric generator, only without the hum. Roy is looking him over, then puts a hand—left, gloved—on his cheek and turns his face. Tenacity allows himself to be manhandled. The touch is very light, but it grounds him.

‘Just a scratch, looks worse than it is. Though we need to clean it. You staying in “Xanthic”?’

He tries to unstick his tongue. ‘Yeah.’

‘Then we should go there.’

‘Isn’t your place closer?’

‘I have no place. Nice S/HRMP, by the way.’

Tenacity lets _I have no place_ and the blatant attempt to cover it slide. He glances—_tries_ to glance but his head is held in place by Roy’s hand. Temperance is already taking on the disguise again. ‘Yes. The best boy. I doubt they—ow!—would remember anything.’

‘I doubt it, too. Let me patch you up.’ Roy’s hand slides off.

‘Aren’t you worried that I might, I don’t know, murder you once we are at my place?’

‘You won’t.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘You jumped between them and me.’

So, it wasn’t Temperance, it was him. He scratches the back of his neck. ‘Just instincts.’

Thankfully, it is not far from ‘Xanthic’, and at this hour, the east starting to artificially lighten up, they don’t scare anyone on their way. Tenacity leads to his room, and Roy commands him to sit down on the sofa, then disappears in the bathroom. Temperance nudges Tenacity’s shoulder, and he pats the hound’s side. ‘It’s okay, boy, you did good.’

**Yes.**

Roy returns with a first-aid kit and a towel. He starts cleaning Tenacity’s face with the towel, wet and warm, though it smells slightly of strong soap, then, when it’s done, Roy applies medigel with careful fingers of the right hand. He keeps talking to Temperance, explaining what he’s doing, as though calming a child. Tenacity suspects it’s more for his sake—and he certainly feels comforted. It’s strange.

‘It seems you know what you’re doing,’ he notes. Roy’s fingers are warm, and the touch is careful, but not hesitant, gliding over his forehead.

‘Was a nurse. Hold still.’

Huh. ‘Why don’t you advertise _this_ skill?’

‘I did say I can do repairs, didn’t I.’

‘Ah, so repairing my face is included in the package.’

‘If you throw yourself at the enemy that stupidly again, it isn’t included.’

‘So bossy, Majesty.’ He glances at Roy from under his brow (the medigel stings like fuck).

Roy has moved away from him, packing the kit, and his hands stop. His right one is covered with small scars, and the left one is hidden under a sleek black glove. ‘Very funny. It’s about my name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. And you are bossy. Don’t like it?’

Roy closes the kit. ‘Don’t care.’ He gets up and goes back to the bathroom. At least he doesn’t look tense. “Majesty” suits him better.

**Tenacity. **Temperance sends him a feed.

‘Fuck.’

‘What is it?’

He runs a hand over his beard, blinking the feed away. Fuck, fuck. ‘Ranny, project.’

The planetary newsfeed appears in the air. The globe of Ganymede is the backdrop to a message, gold on a black plaque. The message starts and ends with two crests: the triangular tree-like of the E.Y.E. and the dragon of the Culter Dei. Fucking fuck.

‘A blockade,’ Roy says flatly. His eyes are fixed on the message, a deep frown making the expression fierce. He narrows his eyes when the message is switched to faces—or rather, helmets—of the newcomers that have brought up this stir. There is so much hate in Roy’s eyes.

Fuck.

‘The blockade is only for off-world travel, we can move on the planet just fine.’ Tenacity notices his own slip. _We_. He has made the decision, it seems. If he’s honest with himself, he’s made the decision in the alley, when he saw that Roy didn’t leave.

**Or maybe right when you saw his eyes?**

He huffs.

‘We don’t need to work _with_ them, do we?’ Roy says. It sounds like it takes him a conscious effort to form words.

‘No, we don’t— Aw, fuck.’

Roy turns to him. ‘What now?’

He feels almost guilty, blinking away the urgent missive. ‘They want to meet up with me at the governor’s office. You don’t have to go,’ he adds quickly.

Roy’s face hardens even more. ‘Good. Because I am _not_ going.’

It’s not that Tenacity himself is all that eager to meet them. ‘Do you have an ID?’

Roy tilts his head. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘May I link my account to it? So that, while I’m kissing these metallic arses, you could go and buy everything you need. For travel. And take Ranny with you.’

Roy makes a step back. ‘So that you can keep an eye on me?’

Who hurt him like this? Life, Tenacity assumes. He knows what it’s like. You become distrustful and expect a kick from around every corner. ‘So he could keep you company.’ And in case someone tries to jump Roy again. ‘I’d like him out of _their _sight.’

‘Temperance is illegal?’

‘No. But I don’t trust them around Ranny. They might hack into him. Can you do that?’

Roy is silent for a while, then says: ‘Yes. What kind of equipment do I need? And what… limit do I have?’

‘No limit.’ He takes Roy’s ID and connects it. He surely would like to take his crossrifle, but provocation is not on the table, for now. ‘We are going to the trailing side as soon as we get an all-clear for the JMF stability, so take whatever you need for possibly hostile environment. I have a small stash of weaponry in my truck, Ranny can give you the list. Oh, and food—whatever you like, the truck stocks are getting low. I think that for now it’s better if we stay close, so please return here after you are done with shopping, I’ll check you in.’ He hopes it sounds enough like a business necessity. He feels that Roy is a proud man and wouldn’t accept charity.

‘Just don’t be late.’

He smiles briefly. ‘I won’t. Look after each other, Ranny.’ He pets his hound and sets off.

***

He tries not to fume at the summons. At least he will see the governor’s office. He assumes they have called the governor there also, instead of coming to her home. It is a threat, a show of who’s going to be in charge here now, and a sign of respect—all at once.

He thinks about Roy. He tries to tell himself that it’s just rational: Roy has spent a longer time here than he has, Roy can fight, knows first aid… Tenacity tells himself it’s because Temperance likes Roy. Temperance doesn’t like just anyone. He tells himself he doesn’t really know why he’s accepted Roy, aside from those rationalisations.

But, fuck him, he knows too well. It’s Roy not leaving, it’s those fuckers who goaded him, it’s…

He knows what homelessness feels like, what being considered subhuman feels like. The humiliation of dependence. He’s a prime bastard himself, but like fuck he’s going to allow other bastards to treat someone like that.

There’s also something… Fuck, Tenacity can’t just put it to words. Something familiar, something… Roy knows what he wants, what he’s going to do—and yet there is a guardedness about him, there is…

It’s the eyes. Tenacity hasn’t been to Mars for years, and he doesn’t know why Roy’s eyes remind him of it. The guy has heterochromia—big deal! The gold of the sands, the blue of the sunrise—bah! Roy is probably fucking tired of every so-and-so gawking at his eyes.

And yet, there is something else about Roy. About his accent, about the way he carries himself, the way he moves—something familiar. A sense of deja vu.

What if Roy has psi-abilities? No, can’t be, the Secreta would have snatched him when he was a kid. And this has happened to Tenacity before, this feeling as though some part of the universe has clicked into place. Years ago, when he saw a S/HRMP unit that an unscrupulous peddler tried to get off of their hands for an outrageous price. Tenacity looked into the unit’s bulging optics, one of them cracked,—and paid that price in full, and added something on top of it also.

He could afford a completely new unit, fresh off the black market, with a licence and a clean memory and without the need to relink. He spent a considerable sum on parts, then on a mechanic who would do repairs, then there was a need to get that bloody licence… He refused to do a full memory wipe and forced binding. He earned Temperance’s trust, little by little, one scratch at a time. The night when Temperance jumped onto his bed, plates closed, and stuck his head under his arm, he knew he’d made the right choice. It was what was meant to be.

**I love you, too, Tenacity.**

_‘How’s it going, boy?’_

**Buying food.**

**…**

**He says you should stop spying on us.**

He blinks. _‘He can tell when we are talking?’_

**Apparently. I like him, Tenacity. He smells good.**

_‘I… think I like him, too. Tell him I apologise. Have fun!’ _He quietens the connection.

S/HRMP units are AIs, and very sophisticated, but he knows they are no sophonts. The punishment for development of a sophont in the Federation is grave, enough to deter even the Underworks geniuses.

He’s seen other hounds: they are complex, very powerful combat machines (or tactical, or forensics—whatever their owners need)—but machines nonetheless. They can emulate real dogs—if someone wants to make such a priceless piece of tech into the likes of much cheaper pseudo-pets—but they are not… They are not _real_.

Temperance is real. His Ranny… Perhaps it is just a projection of Tenacity’s own psyche, perhaps he’s talking to himself, seeing intelligence where there is only programming. Maybe it’s antropomorphisation. Humans are funny critters, they’d bond with anything.

He gets out of the maglev at the station by the governor’s office. It is an imposing building, visually different from others in the dome, with two statues flanking the entrance, holding the Auroran banner in front of themselves, their features deliberately androgynous. The sight of them makes him ache for Shadowlair, even though there is nothing waiting for him there, not anymore.

He is ushered into the building and then into the office proper—a more official, photo-ready room than the office in the private residence. The governor herself is standing by the desk, tense, in that sombre brown skirt and jacket, and with the bright blue of Auroran pin on her lapel.

He tries to suppress a growl when he sees the other two.

‘Head-hunter’.

‘Knights.’ The growl slips out anyway.

They look massive, out of place in this room that suddenly feels airy and homely against their figures encased in black armour with golden ornaments. One, standing a bit ahead of the other, probably the leader, is wearing middle-heavy armour, if Tenacity is not mistaken; the other—a lighter set. Both have lions on their breastplate: the leader a lion _passant_, the other—a lion _statant_. The visible eye and the tongue of the lions is inlaid with ruby. Tenacity tries to recall what Chorus has a lion as its charge. Aer? No. He has to suppress the urge to reach out to Temperance.

‘Hunter—’

‘I will not speak to a helmet.’ He knows he can be killed for talking like this. He isn’t afraid, but he worries for Roy. _These_ will find him and—

Nobody moves for a long, tense moment. The urge to pounce thickens under Tenacity’s skin… Then, the leader knight raises their hands slowly, and with a hiss of air, they lift their helmet off.

They look surprisingly young, though their head, brows and even eyelashes are all white. Their face is beautiful with that cold beauty of old nobility, of _breeding_. They keep their chin tilted up, looking down at the world with steely blue eyes. The effect is emphasised by wires circling their head like a crown—although the circle isn’t complete: there is a gap on the forehead, the right part diving under a metal disc high over the right brow, and the left part ending on the left temple.

The other knight takes off their helmet, too, and fuck, they are even younger, though Tenacity has to remind himself that with _them_, looks are deceiving. They might be twice his age. The ‘younger’ one has a handsome, slightly foxy face, and grey in their half-shaven hair already, and scars from shrapnel or something like it on the right side of their head. They look at their elder.

‘My name is Sean,’ the elder says, to Tenacity’s surprise. Such a… simple name. ‘And this is Zachariah. We have come to investigate the suicides on Ganymede.’

The governor sighs audibly. ‘_Diligere_ Sean, I assure you, those unfortunate deaths are unworthy of your precious time.’

‘No life, or death, is unworthy of my attention.’

What a pompous prick.

The blue eyes turn to Tenacity. Have they… No, of course they can’t read thoughts, psi-abilities don’t work like that. Tenacity shakes himself. ‘I am not here to investigate those deaths anyway, knights. And I don’t need your help so far.’

Sean lifts an eyebrow—it is such a perfect thing, made to insult, to goad, to infuriate, to… To make him feel less. Bad dog, dirty dog, you are nothing…

‘If you come upon any suspicious activity, resembling those of Metastreumonic presence, do engage us,’ Sean says. For all the fuckery about them, they have a pleasant voice.

Fucker.

‘Yeah,’ he drawls. ‘I will. Now excuse me, I’ve got a disappearance to solve.’ He nods to the governor. ‘Mistress.’ He doesn’t say anything more to the knights and turns his back to them.

The all-clear for the flight comes just as he’s halfway to ‘Xanthic’ so he asks Temperance and Roy to head straight to the port mast.

He feels like he’s being watched. Why did the knights want to call him? If there is a conflict of interest, he is unsure how they are supposed to resolve it. His status as the SP puts him beyond the local and even the federal law—technically he responds only to the Council of Guilds. But the knights also have ‘full immunity and means’—and it’s not that the Secreta’s relationship with the Federal Government has improved since the last conflict.

He guesses they’d try diplomacy first—and then, fighting. Did the Feds know that knights would be sent here also? Is that why Tenacity had been chosen? As someone expendable, and since he’s an independent contractor, they can always distance themselves from his actions.

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

He’s a fucking pawn.

‘Are you certain you can eat raisins, boy?’

He gets into the truck to the sight of Roy contemplating a box of raisins—and Temperance (in his true form) doing his best impression of puppy eyes.

Tenacity smiles, the tight knot in his stomach unravelling a little. ‘Yes, he can eat them, but don’t give him too much, you’re going to spoil him rotten.’

Roy gets a handful of raisins and holds them to Temperance, who licks them all off his palm carefully. ‘As though you don’t have a full packet of jerky just for him,’ Roy notes.

Tenacity glares at Temperance happily chewing the raisins.

**Don’t know nothing.**

‘You just want Roy to spoil you, too.’ But he’s not angry, not at all. He gets into the cab—then stops. ‘Fuck. My rifle.’

Roy sticks his head into the cab. ‘Already here. We picked it up on our way, and all your other things. Is this alright?’

Spirits. ‘Yes. It is, thanks. Did you get yourself any weapons?’

Roy steps into the cab properly. He’s in his leathers, and nothing has changed except that there are new metal plates on his shoulders. He looks… ragged. ‘You can check your account info.’

‘I can,’ Tenacity agrees, ‘but I trust you. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.’

That frown deepens. Tenacity is starting to catalogue Roy’s expressions. There are not many of them so far: the ever-present frown, the head-tilt—and that absolute hate and anger aimed at the knights. The frown seems to encompass a range of emotions. It’s not a burden to watch, he will learn to recognise Roy’s emotions. He wouldn’t demand of Roy to state things better unless absolutely necessary.

He thinks that Roy is confused now, perhaps because of the word “trust”.

‘Roy,’ he says as evenly as possible and as non-threatening as his voice and looks would allow, ‘we are partners in this. Partnership requires a measure of trust. You trusted me when you went to “Xanthic” with me, I trusted you to treat me,’ he touches his forehead where the medigel has almost absorbed, ‘and Serum is certainly not the issue.’

That head-tilt. ‘Serum?’

Fuck. Roy might get even more distrustful if Tenacity lowers his guard too much. ‘Yes. Slip of the tongue.’

‘You are a Martian.’

‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

‘No. I’m from Mars, too.’ Roy leaves the cab, and perhaps Tenacity imagines a quiet: ‘I think.’


	4. The Second Dream

The Wolf was running. His gait was wobbly, he stumbled over rocks that seemed to throw themselves under his feet: it was difficult to run properly when his feet were throbbing in pain.

But he continued running.

There was no feeling of dawn, and the dusk was forgotten.

In the darkness, towering shapes grew suddenly around the Wolf and then disappeared. Were they tops of the cliffs? Was he running between them, above, below? He didn’t know. He only felt that he had to run.

He sensed, before he saw, a flickering light somewhere ahead, like a memory. The Wolf was in pain and a small light was better than nothing. It was feeble, blue,—could it be a light that danced sometimes over the sea or the sands? Or the strange light in a cave, deep underground, seen only in complete darkness? A distant reflection of a lightning strike?

In any case, it was not darkness, the Wolf thought. It was better than nothing.

Another rock threw itself under his feet, and he tumbled, head over heels, onto the hard ground. Dust filled his mouth, clogged his nose. He sneezed, trying to get up,—and then went still.

He found the light, and the light was the Storm. The Storm danced, danced, throwing lights and shadows onto the towers of the cliffs, and dust turned into life-giving soil, and salt ran into the depths of the earth with the rain.

The Wolf stuck out his tongue and drank of the Storm, and dust was washed off of him.

The Storm came closer, and the hairs on the Wolf’s nape rose. ‘You are hurting, Wolf. Look: water runs red off of your feet.’

‘I am not a wolf!’ cried the Wolf. ‘I am a man and don’t know why I am like this! The Human pried away my claws, but it didn’t help.’

The Storm came even closer. Though the hairs stood up on the Wolf’s nape, the coolness of water and wind and the Storm’s touch were soothing.

‘Hm,’ rumbled the Storm. ‘Claws are good and everything—but not enough, obviously. Perhaps if we were to remove your coat—maybe underneath you are a man?’

The Wolf drank more of the Storm and the water left a tingly, metallic taste in his mouth. He couldn’t decide whether he liked it or not, but thought he liked it more than not. It cooled his aching feet also.

‘Let us try, Storm!’ he decided.

The Storm moved even closer, the rumble sending shivers through the Wolf, the electricity energising and the water soothing him at the same time.

Then the Storm was upon him.

The Wolf screamed.


	5. Chapter 5

He jerks awake, heart thundering in his chest, and runs his paws— hands— over himself; there was… Slick blood, sleek muscles uncovered by skin…

‘Shh, it’s alright.’

In the darkness, a hand touches his face—warm, it carries the scent of metal. He wants to lick it to taste it, but it disappears. A small ball of light comes into life, and Tenacity shields his eyes with a hand.

‘Drink.’

He sits up. The room comes into focus slowly as his eyes adjust. A cup is pushed into his hands, the clay unglazed.

‘Slowly.’

The cool water soothes his tongue—and he has that sense of deja vu again that makes him pause. He looks at Roy.

Roy has taken off the scarf and the jacket sleeves, but nothing else. He’s frowning again—Tenacity hopes, only in concern. The small lamp—a globe showing topography of Mars—is like two desert lights in Roy’s eyes. During his travels, Tenacity has seen those lights that many Martians think to be only a legend. They look as though stars that decided to visit Mars: spheres of light that hover a meter and a half above the ground without movement. They make a thin droning noise, as though something is sizzling inside them. Noctians call them ‘the eyes of the Lord-Lady’.

Tenacity swallows. What’s with him and his obsession with Roy’s eyes? ‘Are we there?’

‘An hour more.’ Roy still watches him. It’s a tangible kind of gaze—but not uncomfortable.

Tenacity runs a hand over his face, puts the cup aside. He feels hazy, like things are slightly unreal. What was the dream about? Was it a nightmare? Something blue, he remembers, and scorching—but also good, somehow.

He need a drink. Something stronger than water.

Roy watches him, barely blinking.

He runs a hand through his hair, sweeps strands away from his face. ‘Had anything to eat?’

Roy rocks back, stands up from Tenacity’s bed. His silhouette is a shadow in the darkness beyond the light. ‘Yes. Saved you some.’

Tenacity gets up, throws on his jacket, but doesn’t button it.

_Some_ turns out to be half a big pot of stew and a plate of fried mole skin. Why did Roy make food enough for an entire army company? It tastes good, however, hearty, all vegetables generously chunky. Tenacity wishes he had shared a meal with Roy. He calls up a map as he eats, slips Temperance a bit of crispy fried skin.

Roy moves into the kitchen. ‘Do you want more?’

He looks at Roy, at the pot. There is no way he can have any more. ‘No. Thank you. That’s too much for me. We’ll save it for later?’

‘All right.’ Roy moves about the small kitchen, puts the stew into the fridge, puts the kettle to boil… The truck has many old-style facilities, and Tenacity likes it that way. He is aware of Roy, but not discomfited by his presence. Roy doesn’t ask where anything is. He must have explored on his own while Tenacity slept. Good.

It doesn’t feel wrong.

A mug is put in front of him, the tea strong. Then Roy leans over his shoulder. Tenacity is aware of him for an entirely different reason now. Roy carries that metallic scent about him and it obscures the green scent of the tea. The hairs on the nape of Tenacity’s neck rise. He tries to control his breathing without being too obvious about it—but the air tastes of—

‘Camp Nineteen?’

He blinks.

Temperance is happily stealing strips of fried skin off of his plate.

‘Yes.’

‘So, almost twenty of those camps.’

‘No, I believe it is named after its previous designation: Mine Nineteen.’

Roy picks his empty plate, goes to the sink. ‘What are you planning to do there?’

He looks at the map again. It shows the topography of the facility plus the surrounding landscape in the range of two kilometres. ‘I’d like us to talk with the camp overseer _and_ the prisoners. But we also need to see the place itself.’

‘Where the general disappeared?’ Roy runs water, then shakes it off the plate and puts it on the rack.

‘Yes.’ He looks at Roy. ‘What do you think? Which one we should go first: the people or the place?’

Roy stops in his wiping of his hands (he hasn’t taken the glove off of his left hand even for washing—interesting). ‘You are asking me.’

‘We are partners,’ he reminds Roy. ‘Equals. You, too, get to choose. I’d like to know your opinion.’

Roy is quiet, standing very still. ‘I think we should go to the camp first,’ he says at last, eyes on the map again. ‘They are unlikely to have seen anything, but their monitoring systems might provide us with data. With your special status, we will be able to obtain it, and I can analyse it with Temperance. I assume this trip will be shorter than one to the site.’

‘Yes, this is reasonable. And I propose we suit up right away: we might go out from the facility, to save time.’

Roy is frowning again. ‘Suit up?’

He nods. ‘Yeah, Majesty. I mean, the full suit, so we could go outside. I have spare suits, don’t worry.’

But the frown doesn’t go away. Tenacity wonders what might be causing it... Ah. ‘You’ve never worn one?’

Roy doesn’t nod or shake his head, but the guarded expression says everything.

Tenacity offers a smile. ‘It’s not difficult, although you might need assistance putting it on.’

‘Do I need to undress?’

‘Somewhat. It’s a tight fit. But I think you’d only take off your jacket and you’d be fine.’

Roy tilts his head to the right shoulder. Then nods. ‘All right. Please show me?’

He leads Roy to the storage, pushes away the weapon rack to reveal the suits. He slides the first panel with body armour away, brings forward the case with suits proper. There are four of them. Two haven’t been used in a long time, though Tenacity maintains them in operational condition.

‘Are they of one size?’

‘Yes, but I think should fit you well.’ He picks one from display. It is heavy, like a body… No. He shakes his head. Not a body. It’s just a suit.

‘Is everything all right?’ Roy’s voice is low, close, warm.

Tenacity focuses on it. On the faint scent of metal—not the memory-scent of blood. He looks a Roy, looks down at the suit in hands. ‘Yeah. All is fine. Have you… Okay, you’ve removed your jacket. Okay.’ Roy has been padding around barefoot, so there is no hassle with removing boots. Tenacity works the clasps of the suit open. ‘Now, hold it like… Yeah. Step into it and pull it up. Hold on, I’ll help.’ He bends to pull—and yanks too hard.

Roy sways, flails his arms, and Tenacity catches him, one hand under Roy’s back, another on Roy’s bare wrist—he hisses at the bite of static. But otherwise Roy is a good weight in his arms, heavier than Tenacity expected. Mismatched eyes look away.

‘Sorry.’ Roy straightens up, takes away his hand.

Tenacity hastily retreats. ‘It’s okay. I pulled too hard. Lean on me if you need, and try it again.’

Together, they pull it up properly while folding Roy’s pants legs into it. Then Roy slides his arms into the sleeves, closes magnetic clasps on the front and the sides.

Tenacity steps back. ‘It suits you.’ It gives Roy a… sharpness. The sombre dark-blue with golden highlights here and there: chevrons on the shoulders, lines along the outside of the legs… It doesn’t cling like second skin—there are insulating layers and padding—but it repeats Roy’s form.

Roy moves: rolls his shoulders, twists his torso, bends to the sides, looks down at himself with a frown.

Usually people who hadn’t worn anything like this before are quite self-conscious because of the form-fittingness and the pressure of the padding. Tenacity certainly was, all those years ago when he put a suit like this on for the first time. He felt very exposed, more naked than while being naked—and that considering that he never was ashamed or had other uncertainties about his body.

Roy, however, either isn’t self-conscious—which Tenacity doesn’t believe, judging by the fact that Roy is very reserved about touches, and judging by all the layers he wears. Or it might be not his first time, not even his second time, wearing something like this. Tenacity files this thought away for later exploration.

‘Not too tight?’

‘No. I like the pressure.’

This is probably the first time in Tenacity’s presence that Roy expresses his personal affinity for something, and Tenacity feels proud, he doesn’t know why. ‘You can put on your boots over it.’

‘No.’ Roy rocks back and forth on his feet, bounces a little, shakes his limbs. Like a fighter preparing himself for a bout. ‘I’ll go like this. Feeling the ground.’ Roy picks the gloves that come with the suit and puts them on—without removing the glove already on his left hand. Then he gets the helmet that completes the outfit, and turns it visor-first to himself, that frown again on his face.

Then he puts it on.

***

Camp 19 doesn’t have a port mast, though it does have a landing elevator—but it is too small for the truck, so Tenacity has to land the vessel as close to the facility gates as possible, and then they make their bouncy way on foot. Temperance has adopted a disguise as though he’s wearing a suit, too. Just as Roy didn’t look uncomfortable in the suit, he has no problem with balancing in low gravity. Tenacity files away it as yet another Roy-related mystery.

Someone—Tenacity assumes it’s the senior camp overseer—is waiting for them beyond the decompression chamber. They are wearing the fatigues of the Abundance Army, though they have the nervous looks of a clerk. Their uniform is clean and pressed, but a little worn and doesn’t fit well. Judging by the shoulder marks, they are a sergeant. The Abundance pin on their breast is shiny. They are stuck in this place, away from home, loved ones and Mother Abundance.

‘Prosecutor, I assure you—’

‘Tenacity Williams,’ he introduces himself. ‘This is my partner Roy and my hound Temperance. We’d like to know whether there was anything unusual before the governor and the general’s arrival. And we need access to your monitoring systems. What is your name?’

‘Uh. Saul Clerk. Sergeant Saul Clerk.’ They shift from foot to foot. Perhaps embarrassed or uncomfortable: a Clerk in the position of an NCO. An insult, as though they didn’t have anyone else—and they didn’t even allow them to change their ‘caste’.

‘Sergeant,’ Tenacity says, keeping his tone business-like, ‘I repeat my question: has anything unusual happened?’

They seem to shake themselves. ‘Uh, no, sir. There was an arrival before the governor’s—we didn’t know when the governor was going to come, you understand.’

‘Yes. I understand. What was the arrival?’

‘Uh, newcomers, sir.’ They glance away quickly and add more quietly, ‘Prisoners, that is.’

‘How did they arrive, Sergeant?’

‘The usual way, sir, by train.’

Interesting. The governor didn’t say anything about that—more, she said that they had to call for a train from the dome. But it might be that it slipped her mind—she was in shock. And yet.

‘Was it a regular arrival? Was it planned?’

‘It is never exactly regular, uh, but it was planned, we knew about it a sol before.’

‘Did you inform the governor about it?’

‘Yes, as usual, we do as soon as we receive the information ourselves.’

‘From where,’ Roy asks, ‘do they come from?’

‘Various places, uh… sir. New Eden, Luna…’

‘I mean, here,’ Roy says evenly. ‘The train picks them somewhere, doesn’t it?’

The sergeant flushes. ‘Yes. Forgive me, I misunderstood your question. They are transported by ships to A-G port number one—’

‘Abundance-Ganymede?’

‘Yes. It is the only port here suitable for personnel. Then they wait for sorting into the camps, and then the train picks them up.’

Roy is silent, face unreadable. Then he says, ‘I need to speak with the newcomers.’

The overseer licks their lips. ‘Uh, sir. I’m afraid…’

Tenacity sighs. In most contracts that involve tracking someone, there comes a time like this. This shit always tires him. At least he has something to fight it with right now. He peels the glove away from his wrist to show the bracelet.

The sergeant’s eyes go wide. ‘Yes, I understand, but your, uh…’

‘My rights?’

‘Yes. They don’t extend onto…’ They glance at Roy.

‘Consider him my tool. You would let me use any tools, wouldn’t you.’

**Tenacity. You are an idiot.**

He knows that as soon as the stupid words are out of his stupid mouth. He is flooded with the need to read Roy—but the damned suit cuts off Roy’s scent, and yet he sees, feels how Roy changes—

Oh.

Fuck.

‘Roy—’

‘I’d like to talk to them now, please,’ Roy says, his tone as unreadable as his face.

The sergeant lifts a datapad. ‘I need to make an announcement…’

‘No, wait. They are assigned jobs when they arrive, aren’t they?’

‘Yes. The prisoners should work.’

And they certainly don’t have a say in what they are assigned to or how much they are demanded to work. The Agreement be damned.

‘Bring in the specialists first. Electricians, repairs, medics—whoever out of that recent arrival you have assigned specialist jobs to. Make something up, say their work is about to be re-evaluated. Gather them… Where do you assign jobs?’

‘Resources office.’

‘Fantastic. Call them to gather there.’

‘I need to get to my office,’ they say with apologetic tone.

‘Do so. We’ll find our way to the resources office, don’t worry.’ Roy turns and marches down the hallway.

Tenacity nods to the sergeant and hastens after his partner. ‘What I said—’

‘Later.’ Nobody would probably notice the tension in Roy. Tenacity isn’t certain about it himself. Roy’s steps are sure.

**Still a fucking idiot, Tenacity.**

_‘I am fucking aware. Fuck.’_

But Roy is right. Later.

They navigate the halls and find the resources office. It is rather small, he wonders whether the prisoners would fit here. It has a desk and a scattering of folding chairs.

Resources.

Fuck, why did he say that shit? Roy is not a tool. Tenacity needed to convince the overseer to cooperate. Formally, the overseer can’t stop them—but they can make their work difficult.

None of these things excuse what he’s said.

Why does he even care?

Because there’s a difference between being a bastard and behaving like a prick.

Roy doesn’t look affected, face blank—only the fingers of his right hand are moving slightly, as though drumming on something… No. As though he’s counting something, like beads.

**You ruined everything.**

‘I fucking _know_,’ he growls.

Temperance circles the small room without windows, sits by one of the chairs.

‘_Later_, Tenacity.’

Later, yes.

The people start filing in. They do look like they are working specialist jobs: some have tool belts, others wear protective goggles. There is one in a lab coat. Some of them throw glances at Roy, others… others look blank, spaced out, dragging their feet. Are they being sedated? They don’t smell like that—but they certainly smell tired. They stand, wringing hands, glancing about. Some sit down. Roy keeps his posture neutral, not closed-off, but not too open either.

One of the workers, with a tool belt, seizes Roy with an openly hostile gaze. ‘What, you the new “resources” manager?’ Their tone drips with acid.

‘No, I’m not,’ Roy replies calmly. ‘Sorry for this little deception. We are here to ask some questions.’

‘And who the fuck are you to think that we are going to answer?’

Tenacity notes that_ ‘we’._ They keep together. Safety in numbers.

‘I? I am a fucking nobody,’ Roy says smoothly, and tilts his head, eye narrowing. It is quite intense, his stare, and Tenacity sees how the worker shivers under it. ‘But my partner here is a Special Prosecutor—know what that means?’

‘There is nothing worse you can do to us,’ another grumbles.

‘I can do much, much worse, you wouldn’t even imagine. But I won’t, because people have disappeared and we need to find them.’

‘This about the general?’

‘Yes. General Ortega.’ Roy sweeps the whole room with his gaze. ‘Her wife is waiting for her. As, I am sure, your families are waiting for you.’

‘Cheap move, man!’

‘No, it’s not. See, you won’t get out of here.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘No, and I’m sorry you think this way, though I understand: some bastard comes in a suit and demands you talk. You heard of the blockade?’

A couple of workers nod.

Tenacity is, frankly, astonished by Roy’s ability to hold attention of these people. Yes, they are uncertain, distrustful—but they are still listening.

‘Good. Because here’s the thing: the governor believes in justice and I’m sure she’s trying to get you home even now—but she can’t hold everything together _and_ work over the knights blockading the planet. But with the general? She can chase those fucks away faster.’

The “fucks” elicits more worried glances. The E.Y.E. are notoriously everywhere, and people claim supernatural powers to them—more than they possess. To many, the E.Y.E. are a bigger, more tangible threat than the half-legendary Streumonic creatures.

‘I’m not sure even the general can hold against the Psychos,’ someone says.

Roy winces—almost imperceptibly so, but Tenacity notices because he’s watching Roy closely. ‘Don’t call them that.’

‘But you just called them—’

‘Just don’t. Warrior-cenobites don’t like that word at all.’

‘What if the general is dead?’

The room goes quiet with anticipation, all eyes on Roy. Tenacity feels like he’s not even here—Roy has obscured to him. This is a question that is an obvious worry to everyone. General Ortega is the only voice in the military ranks of Aurora opposing General Grant’s plans for the glorious ‘final offensive’ on Abundance—and she has the means and support of the troops to back up her opposition.

This is another angle that Tenacity has been considering.

‘We will bring General Ortega home, one way or another,’ Roy says quietly without a shadow of a doubt.

‘Sir? I might… might have noticed something. Not sure what.’

Roy perks up, moves through the people.

There is a… fuck, a kid, though it’s difficult to tell the age: they look like they might be eight, but their eyes of pure blue, huge and framed by long eyelashes, are much older. You never know, with soldiers.

‘No “sir”, I’m not with the Army anymore,’ Roy says, stopping before them.

They look up.

The two make a strange picture: a ragged kid with an old tool belt low on their hips, their short-sleeved shirt dirty, a bloodied bandage on their left shoulder, their head completely shorn—and Roy, wrapped in so many layers, in the dark-blue and gold,—but Roy’s face looks just as ragged, with the dark shadow of stubble. And their eyes. The piercing blue of the kid’s—and the astonishing blue-gold of Roy’s…

‘You served also?’

‘Not as a soldier. I was a nurse, with the Red Locusts.’

There are a few whistles, but Roy pays them seemingly no heed, watching the kid as the kid watches him. The kid is very thin, lanky.

‘A survivor of the Red Locusts!’

‘And how’s Major Karven?’

‘Major Karven died just before we were captured,’ Roy says evenly, not looking away.

The one who asked the question exchanges glances with their comrades.

**It is true, but the information suppressed by the government and available only in the Underworks.**

_‘Or to someone who really was there.’_

**Yes.**

‘My name is Innocence,’ the kid says. ‘Innocence Smith.’

‘He’s barely ten, and already an MC!’ someone says cheerfully.

Innocence casts his eyes down, right hand at his hip.

‘So young—and with a Military Cross,’ Roy says.

‘It’s nothing,’ Innocence murmurs. It doesn’t look like he’s being modest, or that he’s quietly proud. More like the Cross is unwanted for him.

Tenacity is warming up to the kid already. Fuck wars.

Roy tilts his head to the right shoulder. ‘My name is Roy.’

The kid looks up. ‘Aren’t you Auroran?’

‘I am, and I used to be called… Temperance, but virtue names are not exactly my thing.’

Temperance. Funny things, coincidences like this.

A ghost of a smile appears on Innocence’s lips. He looks slightly out of it, his gaze falling into something distant when he’s not looking at Roy. Tenacity guesses the camp doesn’t have counselling included in the care package. ‘I guess “Temperance” doesn’t fit.’

‘It doesn’t.’ Roy looks around. ‘Anyone else wants to tell me something?’

There is head-shaking around the room.

‘Okay. Think about it, maybe you do recall a thing or two. We are staying here for now. Sorry for keeping you from work. I’ll ask the overseer to lower your quotas for today.’

They understand it as a dismissal. They shuffle out, but the kid stays.

Innocence is holding a leather-bound book—no, a notebook, it seems, judging by pieces of paper sticking out and a pencil attached. It has its own strap, for carrying. ‘I’m keeping a journal,’ Innocence says. ‘I wrote down everything, though on the train I wasn’t exactly…’ He trails off, undoes the strips holding the journal closed. ‘It is difficult to recall it—so perhaps it is better if you read it, Roy.’ He flips through the journal, then holds it open.

Roy takes it carefully—he’s removed the suit gloves—stroking the cover, and sits down on a chair sideways, the journal on his right hand.

Tenacity doesn’t want to intrude, so he turns to the kid, who sits down also. Temperance nudges Innocence’s hand, and Innocence smiles brightly and strokes the folded spines.

Tenacity thinks he should engage Innocence in a talk, to distract him. ‘Where are you from, kid? And my name is Tenacity Williams.’

Innocence ducks his head again. It has been shorn without care, with a few scratches scabbed-over on the top. ‘Shadowlair. East Tierville. My parents have a shop there.’

‘Hey, I’m from Tierville, too! Haven’t been there for ages, though. Where are you from in Shadowlair, Roy?’ It’s a risk, because Roy might take it as him prying, which is not his intention, Roy can even lie, Tenacity just wants to put Innocence at ease, it doesn’t have to be—

‘AllLights,’ Roy murmurs without looking away from the journal. Frowning.

Tenacity exchanges glances with Innocence. Either Roy has made that up—or… AllLights is right near the Source—the training and recruitment grounds of the Jians,—and all the most affluent streets fan out from AllLights also. Tenacity knows, because he grew up on such a street. But Roy can also mean that he lived _on_ AllLights. Homelessness does happen overnight, but…

Roy closes the journal, wraps the strips around it carefully, then gives it back to Innocence. ‘I need to think on it a while. Thank you, it might be useful. May I see your shoulder?’

Innocence twists away slightly, even though Roy hasn’t reached out yet. ‘It’s nothing. Just a scratch.’

Roy nods. ‘Alright. But you should change this bandage and keep it clean.’

‘Yes. I know. Thank you. May I go? I shall return to work.’

‘Of course. Do find me if you remember anything.’

‘How do I find you? I don’t want to…’ the kid trails off.

Tenacity motions to Temperance, and the hound nudges Innocence again—and the disguise flicks off for a few moments. Innocence’s eyes widen.

‘Contact Temperance,’ Tenacity says. ‘You both should have each other’s ID now. He’ll get you through to us.’

Innocence holds out his hand, and Temperance nuzzles it. Innocence’s fingers rub at the base of one antenna. ‘I’ll… I’ll be going now. Good-bye.’

Roy follows Innocence with his gaze when the boy disappears.

_‘Silence us, Ranny.’_

**Done.**

He moves closer to Roy, brings a chair and sits down. ‘We can speak freely now, Ranny is covering us.’

‘Yes, I can feel it.’ Roy tilts his head again, as though listening to something only he can hear. Looks at Tenacity. ‘We are getting Innocence out. As soon as possible.’

This is not what he expected to hear. ‘Why? And how?’

‘On the truck. And because he’s been knifed.’

He sits back. Fuck. That kid, how could they?.. ‘Not a scratch?’

‘No. Maybe because he’s middle-class or because he’s young and looks like an easy prey—fuck if I know.’ Roy’s voice grows agitated, his accent thickening and more Lairian than before. ‘But I’m not leaving him here.’

Tenacity rakes a hand through his hair. ‘Roy, we can’t just… abduct him.’

Roy tilts his head. It reminds Tenacity of something, but he can’t remember what. ‘Why not? You have your status. Use it. Recruit him like you recruited me.’

‘Roy…’

‘I am _not_ leaving him here,’ Roy says, his gaze intense like a storm, ‘and I will do everything short of murder to get him out.’

He sounds determined. And entirely certain he’d get the kid out, whether Tenacity helps or not.

Roy leans back. ‘And he saw something.’

‘What?’

‘I will tell you if you promise me to get him out.’

Laughter bubbles up in his throat. ‘You bloody bastard.’

Roy frowns again. ‘What’s so funny?’

He lifts his hands. ‘Nothing. All right, we’re taking the kid with us—but only because you leave me no choice.’

**Liar.**

_‘Shut up.’ _To Roy, he says, ‘What did Innocence see?’

Roy looks away, his fingers doing that counting motion. Tenacity thinks he should get Roy a string of beads. ‘He saw white figures on the train, when they were coming here.’

‘And?’

Roy looks at him, his frown deep. ‘With shotguns.’’

That description is more than enough for Tenacity to know what Roy is talking about. Fuck. Tenacity has seen them—once—from afar, even though it felt like the laws of physics didn’t apply to them: despite the distance, he saw them clearly, as though they were standing right in front of him. He could count the folds on their hoods, see their curved lips, red and soft. See how their fingers tightened on the handles of their guns. ‘Maybe it was nothing,’ he croaks.

‘One of them came close to Innocence and held his hand and wrote, using his hand. “We welcome you. They are lying.” And Innocence has trouble remembering—because he’s not supposed to remember. It’s not for him. But he does anyway, because he’s a writer and an artist and such things can’t escape him entirely.’

‘If not him, then who is the greeting for?’

Roy shakes his head. ‘For me? For you? It’s vague enough that it can be interpreted any way you want.’

‘How can it be for us?’

The movement of Roy’s fingers halts, then resumes but differently. Counting in reverse? ‘Metastreum has no time, the laws of cause and effect don’t apply to them, though there’s a debate on whether they perceive all the time simultaneously, or sequentially but simply in an order different from humans’. Doesn’t matter now. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence, that it happened just before the general’s disappearance—because with _them_, it is never a coincidence.’

‘I agree, but, Roy, we have to report it to the knights.’

‘And they will take the investigation out of our hands and get Innocence away and force themselves into his brain—fuck no!’ There it is again, that hatred, that piercing gaze. Even being not the target of it, Tenacity feels hot under the suit. Roy certainly doesn’t have any love for the E.Y.E.—and more, it looks _personal_.

‘Roy,’ Tenacity says calmly, ‘I don’t want to lose a contract and I don’t want to even work with them, but we can’t deal with the Metastreum.’

Roy looks away. Tenacity wonders whether Roy is aware of the power of his gaze. The air is thick, charged. Difficult to take in.

Tenacity doesn’t want to lose Roy either—and he puts aside this sudden strange thought. He will deal with this shit later—though he’d have to make amends for his stupid words before. ‘You know what, Majesty, let’s take a look at the glued rovers. Maybe it is a coincidence, after all. The Streumonic creatures are glimpsed here and there all the time. We’ll find the general and then report what Innocence saw—as a rumour among the prisoners, nothing else. I’m sure someone else have seen those figures also.’

Roy pins him down with his gaze. ‘But we _are_ getting Innocence out, right?’

He huffs. ‘Yes, I said so. I am not backing down on that.’

‘If it is because…’ Roy trails off, frowning. ‘Never mind. Thank you.’

It is Tenacity’s turn to frown. ‘For what?’

‘Indulging me. Understanding.’

Spirits. He said that fucking shit, that… absolute _shit_—and Roy is thanking him. He forces out a chuckle. ‘Ah, _Roy bach_, I’m a bastard, but…’ He sweeps his hair back.

Roy tilts his head, a smile on his lips. He looks shockingly young like this. ‘But a considerate bastard?’

‘Maybe,’ he murmurs, turning his face away from Roy’s gaze. ‘Shall we go look at the rovers now?’

‘Yes.’

***

Ganymede has a very thin, practically negligible atmosphere, so without additional air tanks they have a thirty-minute window to work outside. Thankfully, the rovers are not that far from the camp proper, and the gravity being very low, they leap their way fast. Because of the thin atmosphere, they also have to rely on their visors to simulate colours.

The four rovers look normal from the outside, if slightly dusted. It’s unlikely that anyone walked here after the initial attack or whatever it was, and Tenacity hopes to find some marks that would aid in their investigation. First, he wants to look at the rovers proper. They seem to be relics, their place in a museum, or better, in a recycling kiln. ‘Mark-Three?’ he says over their channel.

‘With modifications, yes, it seems like,’ Roy replies.

Tenacity wonders whether Ganymede has anything better than this. ‘Roy, check those two.’

‘Okay.’

Temperance bounces around Roy like a happy puppy. He looks the size of a puppy, too.

Tenacity circles one of the rovers he has assigned to himself—presumably it is the one the governor was in. Then leaps to the other.

‘Tenacity, the governor said it had felt as though they’d hit something?’

‘Or dropped into a crack, yes.

‘But the terrain is perfectly passable, and there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the tracks.’

‘Same with these two.’

‘I need a look in.’

‘We don’t have access codes…’

‘I’ll hack it.’

_‘Ranny, help him, will you?’_

**He’s already in.**

Either the rovers have protection as shit as their looks—or Roy is a very good hacker.

Curiouser and curiouser.

_‘Then help me?’_

**Done.**

The rover’s door slides open. Tenacity hauls himself in. The rover is quiet, turned off—but to Tenacity it feels as though it is dead. As though it was a living thing, and now its life is gone—not faded away, but torn violently apart. He switches on the light on his shoulder, and it illuminates the insides while his visor drops the simulation. There is a sticky-looking substance covering the front panel, and it looks fami—

‘Roy? Is the rover you are in covered with silver or green slime?’

‘Yeah, wh—’

‘Get out_ now_!’

He throws himself outside and flies far and hits a boulder with his shoulder. He grips it, deafened by the helmet’s simulation of an explosion, fights the nauseous sensation of being too light, disoriented.

‘Tenacity?’

A hand touches his shoulder, and the looks up, the visor flickering through modes, trying to simulate colours again—but he can’t wait, so he runs his hands over Roy’s body, and curses because he’s wearing gloves and can’t feel anything, can taste not a fucking thing…

‘I’m okay, I’m okay, Old Hound.’

He pulls Roy close, into his lap, and Roy is almost weightless. Roy’s arms are wrapped around him. Tenacity’s heart is beating so madly in his ears. He wants to rip off their helmets… But he can’t. They would die.

‘Breathe, Tenacity. With me.’

On his visor, a blue circle appears, covering everything else. It grows big as they inhale, Roy’s breathing loud in his ears, like the ocean, and becomes smaller on the exhale. He loses himself in the rhythm, and his heart calms down.

He glances at the countdown in the lower right corner. ‘Roy. We have ten minutes left. Uh, sorry for…’ He lets go of Roy—not without reluctance.

Roy sits back. ‘Don’t worry about it. How are you feeling?’

‘Better.’ His visor comes fully online with colour simulation—but everything he sees, of course, is the dark polarised surface of Roy’s suit helmet. He wishes he could nuzzle Roy…

Fuck, it’s still messing with his head.

Temperance nudges his shoulder, and Tenacity wraps both arms around his neck, closing his eyes briefly. ‘I’m alright. Are you?’

**Fine, Tenacity.**

He swallows—then turns to the rovers, trying to get up.

The scenery is strangely fine, undisturbed: the loud bang that his systems provided prepared him for the sight of wreckage, but the rovers look undisturbed.

‘Switch to thermal.’

He does.

‘Fuck.’

Each rover is confined in a sphere of blazing white—but the rovers themselves are black silhouettes inside. Cold in the heart of heat.

‘Let’s get inside first.’

Tenacity does take off the helmet once they are in, sends Sergeant Clerk a ban on even approaching the rovers. He wants to take off the suit also. He’s sweating, trembling with anxious energy that he needs to spend and can’t, and his face is covered in a thin film, sticky and foul.

The glowing spheres are still in his mind. If he hadn’t remembered, if the gravity of Ganymede had been stronger, if—

Roy steps in front of him, blocking his line of vision. ‘Look at me, Old Hound. _Look at me_.’ His voice carries power, rough and reverberating—despite the padding of the suit, Tenacity can feel it in his body.

He can’t _not_ look, the blue-and-gold holding him. He notices that Roy is slightly taller than him. He manages a smile, though it’s probably crooked and obscured by the beard. ‘I’m not old. Roy, we could have…’

‘No. Look at me. Focus on me, not on those thoughts.’ And then Roy’s black-clad left hand cards through his hair, from the temple to the back, and the slight pressure is so soothing that the nauseating horror fades, the urgency fades, his heart rhythm slows—he pushes his head into Roy’s hand slightly, wanting more.

But Roy drops his hand immediately. ‘Better?’

‘Yes.’ He sighs, and it doesn’t come ragged. ‘Fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t usually panic like this, it’s that…’ He doesn’t want Roy to think him incompetent or unreliable should some bloody thing happen.

‘Yeah.’ Roy steps away, pulling the suit glove on over his left hand. Not looking at him anymore.

Roy doesn’t like touching, and Tenacity with his stupid panic forced him…

‘What _was_ that?’ Roy asks without turning to him. There is none of that low roughness in his voice anymore—everything is back to what it used to be. To normal?

But Tenacity still feels the ghost of Roy’s touch—and wants more, even though he shouldn’t. Roy has a handsome gait, fluid, though he slouches slightly, so tense. Ready to throw a fist all the time?

Temperance nudges Tenacity, and he shakes his head. ‘It has appeared half a year ago in the Underworks. Some fucking genius decided to use Streumonic plasma, or whatever they have for blood—especially from those small things.’

‘Formas?’

‘Yes. Maybe. The jumping creatures, I’m not sure what they are called.’ But he sure knows how they attack, jumping from afar as though distance doesn’t matter, their maw opened wide, full of gleaming white teeth, sharp as daggers. Their back and sides are one smooth shell, practically impenetrable for steel, bullets, even plasma, and they curl to protect their softer belly. He’s seen how fast and clean they can pick a person apart. ‘Some genius, as I said, decided to add all sorts of chemicals to that plasma—or maybe it was several geniuses, nobody knows, and I don’t care. The result is this psi-reactive goo. It is slime-like, semi-fluid while it’s spread around from special containers, then it solidifies—doesn’t matter in air or in vacuum, who the fuck knows how that shit works,—and it explodes near psi-activity.’

Roy’s steps halt slightly. ‘Near any living creature.’

‘Yeah, essentially.’ He sweeps his hair back and winces: his locks are glued from sweat, and he stinks. Fuck. ‘And it explodes in a precise radius that depends on the area covered by the goo. But the thing is, the _fucking_ thing is, Majesty, the effects are impossible to predict. In that sphere of explosion time might go wacky and you would age in seconds until you are dust, or you might be squeezed until you are the size of a sand grain or…’ He reaches for Temperance to steady himself. Temperance chitters, rubbing his head against Tenacity’s palm. ‘Yeah, buddy. It sucks.’

‘And people are hunting Streumonic creatures for their lifeblood as the primary ingredient,’ Roy say.

‘Yep.’

They reach the resources office. Roy probably figured that nobody would be there right now. Tenacity is glad to find it true. He picks a chair from the stack near the wall, unfolds it, and falls onto it.

Roy stays standing.

‘Before, Majesty, the Secreta would have postings on Streumonic hunts once in a while, for research, I assume, and usually there were people desperate enough or needing an adrenaline fix, or foolish enough to accept the hunt, but ultimately the pay wasn’t worth it and I guess the knights can get as many samples as they want themselves. And now, the price on the black market is so high that people practically line up for it, and information brokers are doing fortunes in trading rumours about Streumonic sightings. I heard someone tried to take on one of those Karnak things…’

‘Kraak. Do the knights know?’

‘I guess? They know everything.’

‘That is a misconception. No matter.’ Roy flexes his left hand. ‘If it is rare and risky to produce, it must cost a fortune also.’

Tenacity pats the suit—and then realises he hasn’t taken the cigar case with him. ‘You have no idea, Roy, just how much it costs. Couple of weeks ago one batch of that… abomination was detonated in the Slums of Ophir. Anton Rogue—heard of him?’

Roy nods. He is tense, shakes his left hand. Is he hurt?

‘Anton Rogue threatened to kill anyone who is found manufacturing, selling or possessing the stuff. OA swears up and down they weren’t behind the detonation, but I don’t think the Vory boss believes them. Shit’s bad in Ophir.’

‘When is it not?’ Roy sounds as though he’s familiar with it personally. Why would an Auroran… whatever he is, visit Ophir?

Tenacity wonders when he’s going to get tired of all these mysteries—but then, they are going to work on this case and go their separate ways after.

Roy closes his fist. ‘Someone bought and spread it. Someone with enough resources to spare.’

‘And it was important enough to spare it in this instance, yes.’ He watches Roy with no small amount of curiosity. The thrill of a hunt mounting in him, the fire being stocked.

Roy turns to the hound. ‘Temperance, have you analysed those marks?’

**Yes. I have identified older prints—the original party, presumably, and then covered by fresher ones, the rescue party.**

Roy starts ‘counting the beads’ again, gaze moving over things. Deep in thoughts, frowning.

‘There were only old prints by my rovers,’ Tenacity says. He flicks through the pics he took automatically.

**There seem to be two distinct sets among the original ones: more defined and of uniform pattern…**

‘The governor’s party,’ Tenacity murmurs. Well-defined—of course, they were wearing suits that add weight, and they were panicking, stomping around. Plus, they can afford good footwear. ‘And another?’

**A range of patterns, but all very worn, though deeper than the first.**

He looks at Roy. Judging by the frown, they are coming to similar conclusions.

Roy tilts his head. ‘Raiders?’

He nods—but it doesn’t sit well with him. ‘Fuck, I doubt they’d get this close to the facility—but those political raiders might.’

‘And someone is backing them up.’

‘How else can they afford that psi-stuff? Raiders are usually bastards—but despite the way the official media likes to portray them, most of them are just trying to survive. Though,’ he strokes his beard, ‘I don’t know why they would spread that stuff in the rovers. Seems like a waste: why now simply blow shit up?’

Roy’s frown deepens further, and Tenacity wishes he could smooth it out. ‘To blame the Streumonic creatures. Nobody would try to get to the truth if they are involved, and people believe all kinds of tales about them.’

‘But to me it appears like a sure way to attract the knights, isn’t it?’ He flicks through the images again. ‘There is a— What is it?’

Temperance has gone tense, even his disguise flickers off for a few seconds, and his head is tilted—then he dashes off, and Roy follows in a run.

Tenacity doesn’t call after them—he _knows_ why they are running. He tries to keep up, though the helmet maglocked to his belt hinders his movement; he unsheathes the knife locked across the small of his back.

They get into a big covered courtyard, and hairs rise on the nape of Tenacity’s neck at the sight of five bastards trying to corner Innocence. Another bastard is rolling on the ground. Innocence grips an improvised weapon—a weighed pipe. The kitten has claws and ferocity.

Temperance is behind those bastards in three leaps, bending his head low. He lets out a series of hissing clicks, and Roy comes close, his fists clenched, and it doesn’t look strange that he’s ready to take on five people all on his own.

Tenacity feels the same.

One of the bastards turns round—and their eyes fall on Roy. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

It’s like they don’t even notice a hound showing teeth. Roy has that effect, like a magnet. Tenacity looks at Innocence: he has a gash on his forehead, and the bandage on his left shoulder doesn’t seem to be fresh. Have they not allowed him to change it? Their eyes meet—and for a moment he sees clearly that Innocence’s gaze is somewhere else.

He looks at the bastards. He’s going to tear them apart. ‘Special Prosecutor of the Federal Government,’ he growls. They aren’t faces that were at the meeting—they must be from previous arrivals. Probably the local ‘kings’, like those who bullied Roy. ‘Leave this young man alone.’

‘Are you the pricks who favour him? What, he sucks so well? I want a piece of fun, too.’

Roy bends his knees, and the air is so thick Tenacity can practically feel the thunder, ready to hammer down.

‘Ah, so you fucks are unaware what “Special Prosecutor” means,’ Tenacity drawls. ‘Let me enlighten you: it means that if you don’t leave right the fuck now, I will tell my hound to bite off whatever you are thinking with—and you won’t even be able to press charges. If you don’t heed my warning, I will kill you.’

The talker pales. So they do have brains. They look at their cronies. ‘We, uh, have other things to do, right?’

They scuttle away—and Roy steps to Innocence. ‘Kid?’ He reaches out—but then drops his hand.

Innocence startles and looks up. ‘Roy. I’m sorry…’

‘It’s not your fault. Do you have anything you need to pick up?’

‘What?’ His hand goes to his side where the journal hangs, the strap secured across his chest. ‘No.’

Tenacity steps to them. ‘Then we are leaving. Okay? We need you for the investigation.’

Innocence glances around. ‘I can’t…’

‘Do you want to?’ Roy asks.

‘Yes.’

Since they have only two suits, they decide that Roy is going to give Innocence the one he’s wearing, Tenacity will get Innocence to the truck and then return to Roy with the suit. The padding has to be expanded: Innocence is very thin. Tenacity leaves Temperance with Roy by the decon chamber, and goes outside with Innocence. ‘Ever moved in low gravity, kitten?’

‘During basic.’

He offers his hand. ‘Then hold on.’ Innocence grips his wrist, and he leaps and hears Innocence’s gasp on the link. It makes him grin, fills him with puppy exhilaration. Maybe it will wipe off some of the shit that’s happened to Innocence in the past half hour.

Once in the truck, Innocence takes off his helmet, slouches—tries to make himself unobtrusive, but Tenacity can see him throwing glances around. Tenacity spreads his arms, remembering Dandolo’s gesture. ‘Welcome to “Coccum Bled”, a humble worm-hunting truck.’

Innocence’s eyes sparkle with curiosity, his face softer and alive—it is a better look on him than the dull lost gaze in the camp.

Tenacity helps Innocence take the suit off, trying to keep touching to a minimum, then folds it tight. ‘There is food in the fridge if you want, and a shower with hot water. Help yourself to anything you need.’

Innocence looks at him with a mix of gratitude and embarrassment, his cheeks pink. ‘I wouldn’t… Thank you, but it’s really…’

‘Aw, come on, kitten.’ He grabs his helmet, puts it on, then takes the bundle of the suit and the second helmet. ‘There’s a med-kit in the washroom, but I think you should only clean your shoulder and wait for Roy to patch you up properly.’

Innocence looks aside, fingers stroking his journal. Then nods. ‘You are right.’ He shifts. ‘Be careful.’

Tenacity lingers. It’s been… a long time since anyone worried about his well-being. ‘I will.’

Roy is quiet when he returns. Takes the suit and starts putting it on fast. Tenacity wonders whether it’s the moment they are going to discuss his fuck-up—if it’s the ‘later’.

**He’s been quiet the whole time, Tenacity.**

Alright. Roy smells of anger, with that metallic tang more sour, more ozone-like. Like the precursor to a storm, back home: the air thick like a blanket, and that heavy indescribable scent. When the doors open, Roy leaps right away and he’s inside the truck before Tenacity and Temperance catch up with him.

‘What is this “I will kill you” shit?’ Roy hisses, tearing off his helmet and turning to Tenacity.

He reels back at the blazing fire in Roy’s eyes and can’t find anything to say at first.

‘You are not the judge and jury to decide who lives and who dies!’ Roy doesn’t advance on him—but his voice does.

Tenacity tries to suppress a growl. ‘I can damn well recognise who deserves a nail to the head! What is with this preaching?’

‘No preaching. But everyone can change. You can’t take away that opportunity from them. No matter what you think of them. And I don’t want you to be a murderer.’ Roy yanks the suit open, peels it off, then marches to the storage and pulls on his jacket. One button on the sleeve is undone, and he tries to redo it, but his fingers don’t seem to listen to him.

Absurdly, even though there is a ball of fire in his throat, Tenacity wants to help him. ‘I _am_ a murderer already! I’m sorry if I don’t look like a knight in shiny armour to you.’

‘I am a murderer, too,’ Innocence says from behind them. Roy turns to him, his movements halting. Innocence looks up. ‘I... I was in the war.’

‘You had no choice,’ Roy says quietly.

‘No, I had. I could have deserted, like some others, or, or I could have killed myself. But I didn’t.’

Roy is silent. His scent is still filling the air, his eyes are still burning with lightning, and his mouth is twisted in a promise of thunder—but it’s all calming now. They are holding each other’s gaze, Roy and Innocence, as though stars caught in each other’s gravitational pull and starting the slow dance to become a system—but strangely, Tenacity doesn’t feel excluded—he feels as though he, too, is caught in it, a third body. Tentatively trying to find the perfect position to bring the system into a balance, to not consume each other, and to not push someone away.

Then both of them look at Tenacity. And Roy moves. ‘I’ll cook something.’

‘Majesty, there’s a half-pot of— Aw, fuck.’ Tenacity rakes his fingers through his hair. The spell is broken, but its tendrils linger.

Innocence is looking down the hall where Roy has disappeared. Then calls, ‘Roy? Could you look at my shoulder, please?’

Smart kitten. The fucking best.

‘Sure! Just bring the med-kit.’

Innocence doesn’t go to the bathroom immediately, though—he’s looking at Tenacity, a question obvious on his face. In contrast to Roy’s, Innocence’s face has a whole range of expressions—livelier than in the camp. Getting him out was a good idea.

Tenacity shrugs. ‘I don’t know what this is about. I’ve met him only today.’

Innocence’s mouth quirks—not a smile, but a precursor. ‘It looks like you’ve known each other for years.’

It feels like this also.

Tenacity leaves them to whatever they are doing, and goes to take a quick wash. He throws on a shirt after, but doesn’t button it, then puts his own suit away into the case, turns the cleaning on—his gestures automatic as his head fills with vague thoughts. He waits for them to take a definite form.

Temperance chitters in the kitchen, and he hears a muffled yelp accompanied by the sharp scent of antiseptic. Temperance sneezes. Roy asks whether he should check Temperance’s nose also, to which Temperance replies with a hiss and, judging by the clattering of claws, with moving to the side of the kitchen as far from Roy as possible (but not leaving, because food is being made).

Tenacity smiles to himself, padding into the living part. There are only two bunk beds, but an additional sleeping space can be pulled from the wall, turning it into one big bed. He wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor and leaving the beds to Roy and Innocence, he has a comfortable sleeping bag.

It’s been a long day, full of strange events, and he’s heavy in his bones. The explosion feels far away. But he doesn’t want to go to sleep yet. They have a lot to discuss, about the investigation and Innocence’s return home, they need to contact his family… And he wants to share a meal with them. Do something together, however small. Wash the dishes while discussing whatever is happening.

The tantalising aroma of cooking wafts to him: fried vegetables and mole steaks. Spicy. Homely.

It feels strange, to catch those scents while not being the one cooking. To hear a murmur of voices. It’s been… two years. Such a long time—and he thought he would never let anyone in again—but they are here, and it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels as though he’s been waiting for them. That this truck, with ghost-memories lingering over everything, has been waiting for them.

But how can it be? He’s met both of them only today, he doesn’t know them. Is he that lonely? That desperate?

**I like both of them, Tenacity.**

_‘I like them, too.’_ Spirits know why.

It doesn’t matter, though: his loneliness or desperation or whatever else it is, he’d have to say goodbye. Get Innocence home as soon as possible. Get Roy wherever he wants to be.

All of this is only temporary.

Doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it while it lasts, though.

He shakes his head, taking additional bedsheets and blankets out of a drawer. He needs to think of something else. Like Roy’s outburst. And Tenacity hasn’t apologised for his earlier remark—doesn’t matter that Roy didn’t bring it up. Maybe it’s not an issue for him—but it is an issue for Tenacity.

Roy seems to feel very strongly about murder, though he’s certainly not shying away from using violence. It’s not that Tenacity expected Roy to be murderous—but he didn’t expect Roy to take such offence over a threat. And somehow, despite meeting only today, Roy has picked correctly that Tenacity doesn’t issue empty threats. He _was_ ready to kill those bastards if they hadn’t left Innocence for good.

Tenacity knows few people who are so strongly opposed to killing. Dandolo—although there is one thing Dandolo would kill over, the only thing that has execution as punishment in Noctis, and that is being an unrepentant slaver. There will be no slaves in Noctis, and there will be no slavers.

‘Tenacity, food is waiting!’

He leaves his thoughts in favour of a dinner.

Roy has cooked a lot again, and at this rate they are going to run out of fridge space soon. Roy is washing the dishes already. Odd, but Tenacity doesn’t comment: there is a plate piled high with a rainbow of vegetables and with a steak waiting for him.

Innocence has his own plate also, and he makes abortive motions as though he has to restrain himself from not shovelling food down. Tenacity knows how shitty food is on the front lines, and he doubts it is any better in the camps.

‘We have sent a message to my parents,’ Innocence says, trying to break a potato into smaller pieces. ‘Through Temperance. Is this okay?’

Tenacity nods. ‘Of course. I’m sorry you are stuck here until the blockade is down, though.’

‘I’m… Thank you for getting me out. And you three should come with me! I mean… If you want to.’

Roy turns the water off and wipes his hands on a towel. Tenacity glances quickly: the left hand is bare. Quite… ordinary, with a webbing of faint scars.

‘You sure your parents are going to be okay with someone like me coming round?’

Innocence looks up at Roy. ‘Certainly! You… you saved my life.’ His cheeks glow again.

Tenacity smiles, shrugs deliberately. ‘After the investigation, I’m all yours. I hope we get the payment fast, so I could transfer your parts to you. Something to bring home, kitten. Although dividing by three would be difficult.’ He cuts a chunk off of his steak. It is fried crispy, with spices—very good.

He realises there is a silence, and looks at them. ‘What?’

‘Our parts?’

‘Divide by three?’

Shadows. He postpones chasing a piece of red pineapple. ‘You two are helping me with the investigation, I’m not going to withhold pay from you. You are my partners, not slave labour.’

‘But I’ve done nothing!’ Innocence exclaims.

‘Yeah, nothing but noticing things that everybody else was too fucking blind to spot. That’s nothing alright, kitten.’ He jabs at the steak.

Innocence lowers his head, cheeks practically like landing lights.

‘Okay, you stubborn dog,’ Roy says, ‘but why by three? Where’s Temperance’s part?’

He leans back—and notices it, the tiny quirk in the corner of Roy’s mouth. ‘You just want me to buy him all the treats,’ Tenacity drawls.

**I can buy all the treats myself.**

‘You need my authorisation,’ he tells to Temperance, who is currently in the process of stealing a piece of cabbage off of Innocence’s plate.

**I can forge it.**

He throws his hands in the air theatrically. ‘First they refuse to get paid, and now they are spoiling my dog and enticing him into committing fraud!’

Innocence reaches up to pet Temperance—not an easy feat, due to Temperance being in his true form and size. ‘He _is_ a good dog.’

**Yes, I am.**

The faces of Tenacity’s companions freeze, meaning that Temperance has broadcast this.

And Tenacity laughs, defeated. Innocence casts his eyes down, but his shoulders are shaking, too, and Temperance chitters, pleased.

Tenacity catches the sight of a full smile on Roy’s face.


	6. The Third Dream

The Wolf kept running. It was a slow, difficult feat, and painful. He was running along the river, on cold, slippery rocks. He whimpered. The river was cold also: the chill rose from it like a curtain. He felt a spectral memory of the dawn, but still far away. He needed to remind himself to remember it existed. The cold was both soothing and painful, the sound of the river—the mighty rush—overwhelming. But it was driving away his thoughts and worries. Only movement was left.

At least there were no cliffs to crash upon him, no trees to run into, though he feared he could fall off of the bank into the powerful flow—and once in a while a thought floated in his mind that maybe he should. The cold would wash away the blood and numb the pain and the river would sing him into the final sleep.

He kept running.

The river took a bend from time to time, and he followed its bends dutifully, faithfully, afraid of losing it in the dark. He couldn’t tell whether he was running upstream or downstream. He was deafened by the roar, and if someone decided to attack him… But it was so, so soothing, like a hum or a purr of a thousand cats.

He didn’t feel lonely.

Then, in the darkness, he thought he saw flickering flight—a memory of a light, but a memory strong, as though brought by familiarity, as a striking memory of pain, of the final kiss. The light danced, white and faint. Was it the glow of the stones in the riverbed? Fish luring their prey in?

The Wolf didn’t care—it was better than darkness, and it was far away but along the river. He ran towards it.

The river bent once more—and he stumbled into the glow. The rush of water was twined with and then overwhelmed by mighty breathing—or was that rush always that sound alone? The Dragon lay, and the river started from the Dragon, falling down mighty shoulders. The light was the Dragon’s scales, the long body glowing on its own without blinding.

The Dragon opened two eyes, three, four, more—they were like stars high above, blinking. ‘Who’s done this to you, o Wolf?’ the Dragon asked. ‘You are all bloody, your fur coat gone.’

The Wolf panted, catching the drops of cold water on his tongue. He wanted to dunk his head into the flow, but didn’t know whether it would be appropriate. The bleeding almost stopped, cooled by the river. Without claws, he couldn’t keep himself steady on the wet rocks, but it was just as well. He was getting used to it.

‘I am not a Wolf! I am a man and I don’t know how it happened that I am in this form now, but nothing had helped so far: the Human has pulled off my claws and the Storm has taken away my coat, and yet I am like this still.’

The Dragon rumbled—it was a sound that carried to the Wolf’s bones and soothed him. ‘Claws are good, and the fur coat is good also—but obviously not enough. Your fangs are wolfish, I haven’t seen a man with such fangs—we shall remove them and see what comes out of it.’ The Dragon shifted closer—there were coils and coils of the beautiful body.

‘Please, help me,’ said the Wolf and opened his mouth. The rumbling of the Dragon’s breathing, the wet scent of the Dragon’s scales and the coolness emanating from the coils were a balm to the Wolf’s aching body.

The Dragon towered over him, glowing like a jewel. ‘Do not fear.’ Then the Dragon closed fingers on the Wolf’s fangs and pulled.

The Wolf howled.


	7. Chapter 7

Tenacity wakes up and reaches to his mouth—but why is he doing so? Again those dreams. Not a nightmare this time, he is certain—but maybe he’s simply getting used to it?

He tries to extract himself from the sleeping bag. He set Roy and Innocence up on the beds, with Temperance recharging between them, and spread his sleeping bag in the kitchen, despite their protests. If it is, as they insisted, his truck, then he decides how and where to sleep. The sleeping bag is thick, warm, made to hold against the coldest of Martian night. It was one of the first things he bought when he was only starting. A Noctian work, the outer fabric hand-dyed.

He wonders whether he should connect with Dandolo, but can’t calculate the time difference and doesn’t want to engage his implants yet.

Soft steps make him sit up.

‘Kitten?’

He can feel Innocence going still in the darkness—he’s caught Innocence by the smell of antiseptic, the bandage without much blood. Roy has done a good job on Innocence’s wound, and Tenacity found some fitting clothes for him among those he couldn’t bring himself to throw out.

A scrape against the wall tells him that Innocence is looking for a switch, then the strips over the working area glow into life, low-intensity, warm orange.

‘I’m sorry for waking you up,’ Innocence murmurs. He slides onto a chair.

Tenacity runs a hand through his hair, sweeping it back. Should crop is shorter—he’s on a contract, after all. ‘No, it’s okay. I woke up before you came. Why aren’t you asleep?’

Innocence folds his hands, and Tenacity notices a journal between them. Innocence is slouching again.

Tenacity smacks himself mentally. ‘I mean, is everything alright?’

‘Just… thinking.’

‘A penny for your thoughts?’

Innocence’s grip on the journal tightens.

Tenacity gets up, rolls up the sleeping bag and puts it out of the way. ‘It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me. Want some tea?’ He puts the kettle to boil, reaches for the cupboard for a small cylindrical tin can. ‘I have a friend, he’s a big fan of various teas. He got me this blend, it’s is very calming. Helps with sleep.’ He opens the tin, shakes it a little to entice the aroma out, then holds it to Innocence.

Innocence takes a whiff. ‘Flowery. I like it.’

Tenacity smiles. ‘Wait until it steeps.’

He takes out a tea pot—not the big one they used for dinner, but a much smaller one. It is tempered transparent glass, with a dash of red on the flat base; it is wider than it is tall, looking as though someone took a sphere and pressed on it. Tenacity puts three spoons of the tea blend into it, then fits a strainer on the beak. He takes out two cups, glass, too: ‘double-walled’, they are heavy, retain temperature of the drink for a long time without burning hands; they are transparent like the tea pot, but with a ‘frost’ pattern fanning on the walls near the bottom.

‘Innocence, put the lights off? Want to show you something.’

Innocence does, and Tenacity grins to himself, anticipating the reaction as he takes the cups in both hands and taps them slightly on the kitchen counter. The ‘frosted’ parts start glowing with a faint blue light.

Innocence’s gasp makes his grin painfully wide, but he can’t help himself.

‘It’s so beautiful!’

‘It is! A gift from that friend also.’

‘You like tea very much, Tenacity?’

‘Somewhat, though don’t expect an expert discussion of— Fuck.’ He slaps himself on the forehead. ‘I have hot chocolate powder, maybe you want it instead of tea?’

Innocence turns the lights on again and waves his hands. ‘No, no, tea’s okay!’ He smiles. ‘_Now_ I believe that you’re a Lairian. “Chocolate yes—”’

‘“Cocoa no.”’ He snorts. ‘Haven’t heard that one in a while. Does Fry’s still work?’

‘Yes! Their main shop moved from Union to Grove.’

‘Good to know. That’s definitely a place to visit. Will you give me a tour of all the good old places?’

Innocence’s eyes wide. ‘You… really want to go?’

He shrugs, trying not to show how pleased he is by Innocence’s enthusiasm, aching with an echo of nostalgia. How Innocence’s longing for home has turned the Shadowlair of the past from Tenacity’s memories into a place full of life instead of pain and humiliation. Innocence’s invitation makes him feel warm. ‘Yeah, if it’s okay, kitten.’

‘More than.’

They lapse into a comfortable silence. The water in the kettle reaches the stage that Dandolo describes as ‘quakes far to the south in the plains’, and the kettle switches off with a click. Tenacity leans on the counter, waiting for the water to cool off a bit. ‘My friend the tea-lover,’ he says quietly, doesn’t even know why, ‘he used to be an alcoholic. It was very bad, though it was before I met him. He doesn’t drink even coffee now. I guess tea is a substitute addiction. And since I have the… same disposition towards alcohol, I thought, why the fuck not try tea also.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He glances at Innocence—and the sympathy on Innocence’s face makes his chest constrict. ‘Not your fault, kitten.’

‘It’s not. But I’m still sorry. And proud of you.’

He smiles. ‘You should definitely meet that friend of mine. You two would have a lot to talk about.’ He pours the water into the teapot to steep.

‘You don’t believe that General Ortega is alive, do you?’

‘Why do you think so?’ Counting in his head, he lifts the lid of the teapot then shakes it a little, and fills the cups half-full with tea then tops it off with more water.

‘Because… you would have continued the research without sleep, I think. You wouldn’t stop.’

‘You know, Innocence, if my work hadn’t been so bastardly dirty and if I had been a better man, I would have offered you to become my partner for more than this investigation.’ He picks the cups and brings them to the table. ‘You have a quick mind and an attentive eye.’

Innocence is gripping the journal, eyes down. ‘I’m nothing. Just Innocence.’

Tenacity wonders what Innocence is like when he doesn’t slouch, when he is confident and not all bones, when his hair is grown out a little. The war has certainly robbed him of the softness of the young age—but not of handsomeness inherent to him: big eyes and a mouth fit for smiles, something tender to his face—an expectation of wonder no matter what, a kindness but not naivety. Even sitting here, in Tenacity’s truck, wearing a simple shirt that is slightly too big, he is handsome. A city boy, with a certain nobleness of features characteristic of Lairian natives. Pride, fearlessness, a drive. He isn’t burning up like Roy—he is a steadier, quieter flame, a hearth. His narrow waist, his bony shoulders and bony wrists make Tenacity want to protect—but in a way reserved to equals, not those who are weaker.

He smiles. ‘And I am just Tenacity.’

‘And I,’ says a rough voice from the doorway, ‘am just Roy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Wrapped in a blanket like a cloak, he pads to the sofa, sinks down, tucks his feet under himself, then tilts to the side on the armrest, eyes closed. His hair is slightly ruffled—he is less fierce and more… domestic. ‘Why are you two awake?’

‘Thinking,’ Innocence replies. He pushes his cup into Roy’s hands—Roy’s left one is gloved again.

Tenacity gets up to fetch and fill another cup, the last one of the ‘frosted’ set. ‘Fuck me,’ he drawls in his best ‘thick-skulled bastard’ way. ‘At this rate we can open a philosophy club.’

‘Shut up,’ Roy grumbles and sips at the tea without even opening his eyes.

Temperance clack-clacks into the kitchen, and flops on the floor by Innocence’s legs then puts his head in Innocence’s lap. **And I think you should feed me.**

Tenacity pokes Temperance’s posterior with his foot. ‘You work on solar batteries, don’t whine for food.’

Of course, Temperance whines—which sounds funny with the metal reverberation. Tenacity sighs, gives Innocence the third cup, then opens the fridge to fetch a piece of jerky that Temperance happily chews off, short tail thumping on the floor.

‘Hound?’ Roy calls.

Tenacity snorts. ‘Which one?’

‘You. Could you show me the pics you snapped by the rovers?’

‘Sure.’ While it feels natural to slip between domesticity and work, it makes Tenacity shiver on some deep level. ‘Ranny, project, please.’

The holo appears in the air.

Roy studies it, cup held up to his mouth, a slight frown again on his face. ‘Not this one. Next. Next. Next. Ne— Wait, turn back.’ He sits up, and Innocence opens his journal, the glow of the holo making the angles of his face sharper. He takes a pencil as though automatically, without even looking at the journal.

Tenacity looks at the photo, too. At first he thinks it’s just an impact crater or one of those volcanic openings, like wells. There are many instances of both on the trailing side.

‘Temperance, enhance brightness and contrast.’

And now he sees what must have caught Roy’s attention. It is faint, but undeniable: a somewhat misshapen circle with four smaller depressions arranged on one side. ‘It is not Ranny’s paw print,’ Tenacity says aloud. Chill runs down his spine. Temperance has long thick claws and only three toes.

‘It looks like a wolf print,’ Innocence says, the pencil whispering over paper. He stops momentarily and glances at them. ‘I studied various animals for drawing.’

Roy nods. ‘Of course we believe you. Well-spotted. But it’s not exactly a wolf: wolves are not bipedal. Temperance, put the next pic above it, and the next above, then enhance.’

Temperance does.

Tenacity exhales, ‘Fuck.’ He sees it also, a chain of faint prints arranged in a manner like a human’s footprints would be arranged. Not like Ranny’s.

‘Ganymede doesn’t have animals outside the domes,’ Roy murmurs. The cup is resting in his hands, forgotten.

‘Manduco?’ Tenacity whispers. Then clears his throat.

That… creature might have been right there while he and Roy and Temperance were exploring the rovers. Right the fuck _there_. Watching. Those creatures probably don’t even need to breathe. They don’t need to… Why did that creature leave prints? Where did it come from? Where is it now?

‘No, I think those wolf-like creatures are called Carnophages,’ he hears Innocence’s voice as though from a great distance.

Roy glances at Innocence. ‘Yes, they are. How do you know, Innocence? The Army teaches this?’

‘There was a knight, Venerable, um, Sagacity? Ey gave lectures about the Metastreumonic creatures, and I attended them.’

Roy turns to the pics again. ‘Of course ey would,’ he mutters.

Tenacity has to swallow to be able to speak. ‘Ranny? Can you tell us the time of appearance of these prints?’

**Fits the time indicated by the governor.**

‘So that creature was there,’ he thinks aloud, focusing on the case, and nothing else. He needs to get himself under control. ‘And nobody noticed?’ He understands that this is easily explained: people were in distress…

‘I have a problem recalling the figures on the train,’ Innocence notes. ‘Maybe it’s something similar?’

‘Anthropocentric ignorance,’ Roy murmurs. ‘Human brain pushing away everything that poses even a shadow of an existential threat. But it might be other things. Usually Manducae are the most colourful ones, but a dark-furred Carnophage could hide in the lightless conditions, or it might be a case of adaptation if the Carnophage spent a significant length of time on Ganymede. A green and yellow Carn? That would be a sight.’

Fuck, both of them are right. But something is strange about it. Tenacity can’t get rid of an anxiousness gnawing at him, situated in his stomach. He gets up. ‘Ranny, make it horizontal.’

The holo flips flat, hovering over the table top.

He walks along it, cranes his neck, trying to analyse. ‘Doesn’t it look like something was dragged over those prints?’

Both Roy and Innocence get up also. Roy walks around the pictures. ‘Yes, I say it looks so. The prints are smudged a little in one direction, it seems like whatever was dragged, it happened after the prints were left here.’

It looks pretty big. ‘The Carnophage dragging one of the bodies?’

‘But,’ Innocence says, ‘aren’t Carnophages strong? And why even drag? Though maybe it was wounded? In pain?’

Tenacity huffs. ‘They are clever, those buggers.’

‘They aren’t clever,’ Roy says, ‘because “clever” implies something human-like—but Carnophages _can_ abide by human logic, yes. Somewhat.’

‘Then what, is it another message?’ But try as Tenacity might to push it aside, spirits, _humans_ rarely make sense. Dealing with the Streumonic creatures is weird only if you believe that humans can be logical and consistent.

‘I do think it’s a message,’ Innocence murmurs, sketching again. ‘Like that one in my journal. But I don’t understand who’s supposed to see it and why… why me, that first time.’

‘Because you are an artist, Innocence,’ Roy says and, when Innocence opens his mouth, probably to object, Roy shakes his head slightly. ‘Come on, kid, you are, and I don’t mean only drawing or writing. You notice things, and more importantly, you see patterns that others wouldn’t even think of. The Streumonic creatures don’t fit into the ordinary—it takes a mind different from others to notice them. An artist, a head-hunter. Someone who not only possesses that inclination, but who has nurtured and honed it. Or someone who is wired differently. They didn’t choose you at random, Innocence, just because you happened to be there or because you are weak or whatever else you might be thinking of yourself. They chose you because you have qualities they need, qualities they value, so to speak. Oh, and there’s a theory that, since they are pure psychic energy, they are especially perceptive to strong emotions, to pain. And society usually isn’t kind to artists, in the general sense, or to those who are very different.’

‘So, you are saying that…’ Innocence pauses, his fingers rubbing the pencil. ‘That they felt empathy towards me?’ The holo and the lumo strips glow bright in his eyes for a moment.

Tenacity wants to wrap his arms around Innocence.

Roy nods. ‘In the most literal way.’

Tenacity shakes his head, focusing back on the issue. ‘But this doesn’t explain…’ He runs his hand through his hair. ‘Okay, what are we going to do? This… creature seems to want us to follow. Ranny, can you find other prints on the pics and try to extrapolate where it might have gone? Weighted down by a human body also.’

Instead of the pics, a map of the area appears, with a marker indicating the most likely location.

Before, Tenacity would have been doing all this on the mind map. And now there are Roy and Innocence—but it doesn’t feel strange, it feels right.

Being with them feels right.

‘The probability is still low,’ Roy says. ‘It’s been a long time. But as I said, the Streumonic creatures don’t operate on human logic and have a different understanding of time.’

‘If the Carnophage wanted us to find him,’ Innocence notes, ‘he might still be there, waiting for us. Shouldn’t we report it to the knights, however?’

Roy growls, ‘No fucking way.’

‘You have an issue with the knights, Roy?’ Tenacity means it as a tease, though he’s getting a little tired of the mysteries. He can’t be partners with someone who doesn’t trust him.

Except that, he feels good working with them both.

Roy looks straight at him, blinking slowly. ‘Yes.’ But he doesn’t elaborate.

They will need to have a talk at some point. Tenacity knows that everyone has their own demons, but if they are to continue this… Then he remembers they won’t continue _any_ of this. The end of the contract would mean the end of this partnership, with both Roy and Innocence. Maybe together with Innocence they will be able to convince Roy to visit Shadowlair.

‘Okay,’ he concedes. He wouldn’t have survived so far if he hadn’t known when to let an issue rest. Again. ‘Since it’s the only semi-solid lead we have so far, let’s explore those,’ he glances at the map, ‘caves.’

‘I should go with you,’ Innocence says.

‘No fucking way,’ Roy growls.

‘I can handle myself,’ Innocence is looking at Roy without fear or uncertainty. ‘There are other weapons and suits. You are not my parent, Roy.’

‘No, I’m not trying to be,’ Roy says quietly. ‘But it is too dangerous.’

‘Perhaps if they tried to communicate through me before, the Carnophage would be willing to talk with me also.’

‘I don’t…’ Roy closes his eyes. They don’t rush him. Then Roy looks at Innocence again. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t explain. Your sensitivity is why I think you shouldn’t go. If there is not only a Carnophage, but the Cynicles also, they might use all sorts of illusions—drawn right from your mind. We don’t know what we are walking into. I don’t want to risk so much.’

Innocence nods slowly. ‘I understand. But Tenacity is also an artist.’

How did… Tenacity sweeps his hair back. ‘It’s nothing. Just scribbles.’

Roy tilts his head to the right shoulder, and Tenacity looks away. At least the beard and the low light should hide the heat on his cheeks.

He just travels a lot and sees lots of interesting views and plants and animals, but he’s never figured out how to take artistic photos or whatever, and sometimes he can’t take them at all, but he has his notebook and coloured pencils… Innocence must have noticed the drawings in the storage, the only framed ones, he should have removed them, along with comments pinned to them, long time ago, after—

It’s not important now.

‘You have encountered Carnophages, Roy?’ he tries to turn the conversation away from his drawing skills, but Roy still has his head tilted.

‘Yes.’

An interesting life.

Tenacity strokes his beard, turning back to the map. ‘Let’s do it like this: I have heavier suits, I’ll put one on. Roy, you get one of those you wore before, while Innocence puts on the other—but stays here. If we need your presence, Innocence, you can go out immediately. I have Army-issue weapons, so help yourself to whatever you are familiar with, kitten.’

‘Thank you. Will you take Ranny?’

‘Can you operate the truck?’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. I can teach you later if you want, but for now Ranny will steer it. And we will show you the feed: everything I see, he will project. Okay? Everyone good with this?’

Roy and Innocence exchange glances, then Innocence nods. ‘Yes. We’re good.’

***

The armour is heavy—Tenacity feels like he’s stuck in a cupboard he also has to lug around—and he _has _the experience of being stuck in a cupboard. The low gravity doesn’t help: leaps are difficult because his balance is different, so they have to take it slower, walking from the truck that he stopped as close to the cave entrance as possible. He wonders whether Roy would move just as effortlessly in the heavy suit as in the light one. The crossrifle on Tenacity’s back gives him a measure of security, if not stability.

‘Tenacity? May I sketch your rifle later?’ Innocence asks through the link.

He chuckles. ‘So you fancy my big, long rifle?’

The link is filled with silence.

‘You are horrible,’ Innocence murmurs. Tenacity is sure he’s blushing.

‘How’s his having a custom rifle leads to him being horrible?’ Roy asks. He’s moving slightly ahead of Tenacity, and Tenacity worries but doesn’t intend to call him back yet. They have to cross a small field to the entrance.

‘Oh, he made an implication that I meant not his rifle, but his, you know…’

Silence.

‘You _are_ horrible, Old Hound,’ Roy concludes. The smile vanishes from his voice almost immediately: ‘The radio link might go funny, will you be okay, Innocence?’

‘Yes. Ranny is monitoring you, and the feed is good now. Look after each other.’

Tenacity glances at Roy’s sleek figure. ‘We will.’

The entrance to the caves looks man-made, but with the facility only four kilometres away, looming like an ugly, unnatural broken toy, it’s not surprising. Before the facilities became fully automated, the prospective mining places were explored by humans with the support of drones.

Tenacity flicks through his vision modes. Nothing so far.

He recalls that it is thought that Manducos are transformed humans—miners that came from the depths of the penal facilities of Abundance on Mars, killing animals and humans and mutants alike. Manducos don’t have a taste for human flesh—unlike Carnophages—but they can eagerly kill with their four arms, or burn anyone with fireballs that don’t need oxygen, or melt with acid they spit.

He shrugs the crossrifle into his hands and checks the charges.

Roy is carrying a simple needler. He probably thinks that if they don’t kill the Carnophage with the first few shots, they are as good as dead anyway. They are not knights, after all.

He hurries after Roy. ‘I shall take point. My armour is better.’

‘Right.’

He hopes he’d give Roy enough time to get away if things go to sunrise.

The tunnels are straightforward, cut as though with a ruler through caves, walls smoothed by lasers. It feels a little wasteful, dimensions too big for humans—but they were probably cut with further exploration by rovers in mind. The tunnel-caves do take bends from time to time, but there are no side tunnels. The explorers definitely knew what they were looking for.

Every few minutes they check in with Temperance and Innocence, but everything appears normal.

‘Guys? Can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, Innocence,’ Tenacity replies, looking around, switching through modes on his helmet.

‘You aren’t moving. At least, not according to your positioning data.’

‘Might be the caves interfering with the connection,’ Roy suggests.

‘Might be—but why can I hear you through the radio, then?’

‘Beats me.’

‘Look after each other,’ Innocence repeats insistently. ‘I don’t want you to—’

Innocence’s voice is cut off by silence. Tenacity checks his systems but they appear to be well and fully functional. He glances back at Roy—

‘Sorry, little cat, we must speak in private.’

He whips around, lifting the rifle to his right shoulder, but the target locator in his helmet keeps skimming over the area without success.

‘In here, Brother Wolf.’

The voice, not mocking but rather tired, rumbling, bounces off of the walls, and Tenacity cycles through vision modes to no avail, his heart in his throat.

‘Can’t see me like this. Take off the bowl.’

He tears it off. Distantly, he thinks he shouldn’t, he is _panicking_, but those thoughts are separated from him and then they fade into nothing. He takes a deep breath, rakes his fingers through his sweat-slicked hair, and tastes the air. Cold rock, sulphur, something tangy, metallic and so close and familiar, and fur, unfamiliar.

He blinks a few times, bares his fangs—and freezes when realisation hits. He should be choking up, he should be dead already. He tries his connection to Temperance, but everything is quiet. The connection isn’t blocked, but it is simply not-there.

Roy! Roy, he must return to Roy, must tell him, protect him— It’s so dark.

‘Don’t worry, Tenacity. I’m here. Talk to him.’ And then he feels as though a hand touches the nape of his neck. Fingers, calloused and scarred, curl loosely, and it stings a little at the first contact, but then turns into a soothing warmth.

He closes his eyes and breathes, enjoying that pressure, allowing it to comfort him. He hasn’t died yet, and Roy is somewhere close, and Roy is calm, and it means that Innocence must be fine also, otherwise Roy wouldn’t have been this calm.

He takes a deep breath, the taste of the air dominated by Roy’s metallic scent.

And opens his eyes.

It is still a cave, the walls smooth, black, and he can just make out columns. There is a sense of a vast space, far bigger than the caves before it. There is strange ambient light clinging to the walls, flowing down them like water. The ground is slightly uneven, as though covered in piles of pebbles that are packed tightly—they don’t make a sound under Tenacity’s feet.

Tenacity feels heavy, as though back home, on Mars.

In front of him, leaning on a wall, sits a Carnophage, that strange light cascading down his shoulders, making his fur appear wet. He seems to be of a dark grey colour, but it is difficult to say with certainty. He has broad shoulders, and his figure is more human-like than wolf-like, although his feet are the long feet of a wolf and his powerful arms are longer than would be proportionate for a human of such stature. Tenacity estimates him being taller than himself for a full head. The Carnophage has elongates jaws, but not entirely wolf-like either, as though an artist changed their mind near the end of a drawing of a wolf and decided to try to turn it into a drawing of a human. He has orange eyes that glow from under the half-lowered lids. His breaths come out in heavy puffs, clouding the air.

While the air does feel chilly, Tenacity’s own breathing doesn’t form clouds. Perhaps the Carnophage has a higher core temperature. He smells surprisingly ordinary: wet fur, dust, the bitter sourness of exhaustion.

‘Brother Wolf,’ the Carnophage says. His mouth doesn’t move with the words except to open in a grin, or maybe a threat of fangs. ‘We’ve been waiting for you for so long. Time to come back to the pack, Brother Wolf. They are lying.’

Hairs rise on Tenacity’s nape. He reminds himself that the Streumonic creatures like to talk in riddles, like children repeating words and stringing them together without understanding their meaning. ‘Who lies?’

Another grin. ‘All of them. Aren’t you tired of it?’

He clenches his teeth, to not bare them like the Carnophage has done, and growls, ‘I don’t understand what you are talking about. What did you do to the body?’

‘The body?’ The Carnophage looks down at himself, stretches his hands, turns them this way and that. The fingers are longer than in a human, but the thumbs are shorter, and all end in big gleaming claws. ‘The body? It is tired. It needs rest. But we’ve been waiting for you, Brother Wolf.’

‘I don’t mean _your_ body!’ he snaps. He wants to fit his fangs on this pup’s neck and shake him until he starts making sense. ‘I mean the human body that you dragged! Where is it? Is that person alive?’

‘Oh! Oh, they are where everyone else is.’

‘_Where?’_

‘Where everyone else is,’ the Carnophage repeats, sounding confused. ‘I am so tired, Brother—aren’t you? But you have to protect them, lies or no lies. Such is our lot. We must protect until our life runs out—and then you will lie here as I do—’

‘_I don’t know what you are talking about!’_ He is roaring, his head is pounding, his feet are— he feels cliff rock, he feels the springy moss of the forest, he tastes river water, he is poised on the precipice, he needs the light and sees it and fears it, he—

‘This is enough.’

He stares as Roy, without the helmet, moves to the Carnophage. The creature doesn’t turn his head to Roy, doesn’t look at him—nothing.

‘Brother Wolf, I don’t know— I…’

‘Shh. Rest,’ Roy soothes. His gloved left hand rakes through the thick matted fur on the Carnophage’s head. ‘It’s time to sleep. You were good.’

The Carnophage sags, a shudder runs through his body.

The air it thickening. Roy curls the fingers of his left hand, still in the fur, then looks at Tenacity. His eyes are glowing. The air flows into Tenacity’s lungs, sweet and cool. Sparks coruscate over Roy’s form, on his skin—like lightnings, but—no, not on his skin: it is as though Roy’s skin is cracking, and light, blue and gold, shines from within.

The Carnophage is no more, without a trace.

‘Put on your helm,’ Roy voice rumbles in Tenacity’s ears—his bones—there is something strange to it, as though it is woven into the universe itself, as though atoms sing with it, as though it is the frame on which everything is built, the lattice. It rakes through Tenacity’s fur—

What fur? What is—

‘Now, Old Hound.’

He hastens to do so. Roy reaches a hand—the right one—and Tenacity grips it as tight as he can, and he _feels_ its heat though he shouldn’t, the gloves should be blocking such sensations. Roy is looking away from him. He lifts his left hand and folds his fingers into some sign—and a bright triangle appears in the air, red-and-white, gold-and-blue, lightnings arcing over its lines, fuzzy like fur, and they reach out to Roy. Inside the triangle, Tenacity can just make out familiar shapes…

‘Let’s go.’ Roy pulls him into the triangle.

He can’t describe the sensation—because there isn’t one. His body simply suddenly becomes much heavier, and he stumbles and would have face-planted had Roy’s hands not been on his shoulders.

‘Steady. Sit down.’

He sinks into softness—and recognises the kitchen of their truck. He tears off his helmet, taking lungfuls of air, blood rushing in his ears, clutches at his head with both hands, dropping the helmet on the sofa. It feels like his head weighs a ton.

‘Tenacity! Roy!’ Innocence’s hands are on his shoulders where Roy’s were moments ago, and Innocence helps him lie down sideways on the sofa—and he throws his arms around Innocence and pulls him down also, feeling a bit more steady with him. Less under the threat of falling through the floor.

‘You went silent suddenly, and now you are here!’ Innocence says into his neck. His breath tickles Tenacity’s skin, and his short hair is soft against his cheek. ‘What’s happened? How are you here?’

‘Ask Roy,’ he rasps. He closes his eyes: the kitchen is tilting to the right—and he pulls Innocence closer, holding onto him for dear life. Still suited, he can feel only the pressure and weight of Innocence’s body, but it’s already enough.

‘He left to the storage… What do you need, Tenacity?’

‘You.’

It must be mutual, because Innocence is digging his fingers into Tenacity’s shoulders, and not at all to push him away.

Tenacity breathes in and out, in and out, with Innocence’s weight half on him, until he stops feeling like the universe would collapse onto him. ‘Okay. I’m better now, kitten, thank you.’

But Innocence doesn’t move. ‘You scared me. Temperance lost you also.’

He runs his fingers over Innocence’s head, trying to keep his touch light. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s find Roy? I’m not sure what the fuck has happened, myself.’

**Scared me, too, Tenacity.** Temperance catches his hand in his mouth.

Tenacity opens his eyes. ‘Sorry, Ranny. Is it okay now?’

**The connection is restored. You as though stopped existing.**

He had their connection malfunctioning a couple of very memorable times, but simply disappearing? In the caves, he felt—

He sits up, sweeps his hair back, takes off the gloves. Innocence is watching him, blue eyes bright, and Tenacity smiles. ‘I’m okay, kitten, promise. Just… confused.’ He gets up. He undoes the clasps of the suit and takes off the upper part of the armour, then pushes the suit down to his hips. He doesn’t wear an undershirt, and wishes he had, because he’s covered in drying sweat. Spirits, he must look like a mess.

‘Roy?’

They find him still in the storage, sitting on a chest, the suit, like on Tenacity, pushed down to his waist and his thick leather jacket resting on his shoulders. He doesn’t look up at them.

‘Roy?’ Tenacity tries again. ‘Are you okay?’

‘This is not the question you want to ask, is it?’ Roy says quietly. His eyes meet Tenacity’s, and there is rebellion in them, a challenge—but hauntedness also. Caution that might trigger a run.

Tenacity has seen looks like this in the eyes of some of those people the Noctian _furiosi_ break out and smuggle away from the ‘re-education’ camps of Abundance and the penitentiary trains of Aurora and the Sand Pits of the Alliance. Slaves not yet broken in, prisoners who have nothing to lose anymore except for the elusive idea of freedom and their own inner fire. There are usually only few of these in a group taken by the _furiosi_—if any at all.

Roy is watching for familiar signs. It’s not the first or even the second time for him—how long has he been doing this? How many times has he encountered this, watched for it, prepared to fight and to run? And Tenacity wants to tell him it’s all right. That it doesn’t change anything—this revelation hanging between them unspoken, the one Roy is daring him to let out in the air.

But he can’t tell him that—not because it isn’t true, but because Tenacity himself is just one part of this equation. Tenacity doesn’t know whether it changes anything from Roy’s side: this case, this partnership… Whatever is going on between the three of them.

‘We found the Carnophage, kitten,’ Tenacity says. Looks away from Roy. He doesn’t want to corner Roy, wants to give him time—and doesn’t know whether he needs to hear a lie or the truth, when the question will be asked inevitably. ‘In a strange place. I talked with him, and he said…’ For a moment, the creature’s words obscure everything else. _Brother Wolf_. ‘He said strange things.’

He wants to pull Innocence close again. Find his footing in Innocence, an anchor. Wants to tell himself he’s nothing but a guardian dog here, that Innocence is nothing but a precious tender creature to be protected. But it would be a dishonesty to Innocence and to himself, an insult. Innocence is so much more than that, he is not weak. That Tenacity so desperately wants him now is proof enough.

‘Tenacity.’

He lifts his eyes at Innocence—and finds sympathy in them and patience, and he burns with shame for his own weakness and selfishness.

‘Sorry. The creature said cryptic nonsense, something about “them lying”, like in your journal. He was… dying, or it looked like it, so maybe that’s why he made less sense than they usually do. Then I asked him about the body, and I guess he confirmed that he did take it: he said it’s “where everyone else is”, but fuck if I know what he meant. And then he…’ He looks at Roy. He isn’t certain what’s happened: it feels like a dream, the details vivid but slipping out of his grasp, etched somewhere on the inside of his skull but difficult to assess in full.

‘Then I helped the Carnophage die,’ Roy says quietly. ‘In a way. We had to get out. I looked through the facility’s records of those caves while you were talking. The caves were closed off a while before the general disappeared.’

How could Roy look through the records while they were disconnected from the outside world?.. But the answer to this lies in the unspoken.

‘Yes, but they were structurally sound, as you and I saw.’

The frown is deep on Roy’s face. ‘They were closed off because they collapsed. Completely, Old Hound. Those caves you went through don’t exist. They were re-charted for you, and when the Carnophage faded, they started fading also. So I had to get us out.’

He tries to recall it: Roy surrounded by—generating?—lightning, and then a triangle through which they stepped…

‘You teleported us.’

‘You could call it that.’

‘You were out only for a few seconds,’ Innocence says. He sits down on another chest and holds out his hand after a moment of hesitation—but Roy looks away from it. The expression of hurt on Innocence’s face is unbearable, then it softens into sympathy again.

How long can they exploit Innocence’s kindness?

Tenacity sweeps his hair back. ‘You are a knight of the E.Y.E., aren’t you, Roy?’

‘Formerly.’

The air thickens impossibly, and are those sparks running down the walls? Is it what it is, the impossibility of Roy?

‘There are no former knights.’

‘You are looking at one. And there are others. I have nothing to do with the general’s abduction, or with the Streumonic presence, I assure you. Or with the Culters.’ The last word is spit out with vehemence, and Roy gets up—but stops because Tenacity is standing in the doorway.

Tenacity didn’t mean to position himself like this. He thinks he might catch on fire from the look in the mismatched eyes—the narrowed look akin to the one Roy gave to the images of those knights—_other_ knights—only now it’s all anger, not hatred. But Tenacity thinks he can see resignation in these eyes also, behind the anger.

‘You are a former…’

‘Yeah. A Jian, “the sword”. Does any of this change anything?’ There is a challenge in the words, in the proud tilt of Roy’s head—he is regal as storms are regal, and terrifying like that also. Tenacity doesn’t know how either of them would be able to leave unscathed if—

‘Does it change anything for _you_, Roy?’ Innocence asks.

The pressure eases. If not for Innocence, his own stupidity would have led them to something bad.

The need gnaws, scratches at his insides.

The look on Roy’s face turns open, unguarded by anger—for a moment. ‘No, Innocence,’ he says quietly over his shoulder. ‘I thought I’d never use my powers again—and yet… I still want…’ He trails off then walks past Tenacity.

A spark stings Tenacity’s bare skin when their shoulders touch, the leather of Roy’s jacket rough, but despite it he calls after Roy: ‘Where are you going?’ He is stricken by the revelation that he can’t stop Roy—not because Roy is powerful, but because Tenacity _wouldn’t. _No matter his own feelings, he wouldn’t.

‘Out.’ Roy isn’t making an effort to dress up, only sticks his hands through the sleeves of his jacket.

‘The suit!’

‘Don’t need it.’ And he’s gone.

Tenacity feels such a loss, like a hunger, empty in his throat and his belly. ‘Fuck.’ He sweeps his hair back. He should have handled it better, should have found words of reassurance—he doesn’t know whether it changes anything, but he does know he doesn’t want Roy gone.

‘He’s Roy!’ Innocence says, and his voice trembles. ‘Why does it… I don’t care what he was!’ He closes his eyes, clutching his wrists on his lap. ‘No, I mean, I _do_ care, but it’s, it doesn’t change what I…’ He trails off, presses a heel of his palm to his forehead.

Tenacity knows. Knows the unspoken, knows that deep inside, he can echo Innocence’s words and their meaning, the one that is bigger than words.

He reaches out to pull Innocence close again—then remembers he’s in need of a wash. ‘Nothing is over, Innocence,’ he assures instead, hoping it be true. ‘We’ll give him time—and time to ourselves. We aren’t over.’

Innocence’s clear eyes look at him—right into his soul, and then Innocence nods. ‘No, we aren’t over. I’ll make us lunch, and we can review what we know about the case. Ranny, come with me.’ He adds something else quietly, but Tenacity catches only ‘strengthen me with raisins’.

Spirits, he wonders how they are going to survive this—and not only because of the case.

***

Tenacity takes a quick, economic shower and then gets out his shaving kit. He puts it all on the sink: the metal container with the bar of shaving soap, the heavy lather bowl cut from a single piece of red granite, the brush, a little frazzled from years of use,—and the razor. He takes it out of its leather sheath. He made the sheath himself, many years ago, one of the first items he tried to create from leather. The embossed dotted pattern is uneven, and he had to redo the stitching later, but he is still proud of it.

He has enough leather left to make a roll-pouch for Innocence’s drawing and writing supplies. His fingers itch with the need to create.

He hangs a strop on the wall hook, moves the soap into the bowl, wets the brush and lathers the soap into tender foam. A faint aroma of lavender and old wood surrounds him.

Shaving is a meditative mundane process that always helps him think, take stock of his life; using the best tools—the little pleasures of the highest quality—only contributes to it.

He encountered the E.Y.E. knights when he served in the Auroran Army: there was a trio—a trine, he thinks they called it—of Jians assigned to their regiment. Fuck if he knew what the relationship between the three was, but it didn’t matter to him much. One wore heavy armour, face as though chiselled from rock, white hair shorn nearly completely; the other two wore a light set, quick on their feet, quick to smile, quick to anger, quick to mercy. The three offered spiritual guidance and simple human support, and, as otherworldly as the Jians were, many people preferred to go to them instead of medics for the matters of nightmares and pain that did not manifest in the body.

Tenacity has never been religious, though he attended the Sitting, even at the Source one memorable time, and performed his duty honouring the ancestors and the city during the Upside, though that stopped when he left his biological family.

He kept away from that trine: they seemed more strange than the Jians who held public lectures and led celebrations in Shadowlair.

Once he saw them in battle, saving so many lives and performing things that no human could accomplish and even things that simply couldn’t happen at all, he grew more conflicted in his opinion.

He crossed paths with knights more times over his hunting years—

He winces from a nick to his skin and dabs at the fresh cut with a tissue.

He knows Jians and Culters are not the same, he knows there are various groups inside the two orders themselves, that those in the Culter Dei are called Choruses, those in Jian Shang Di are Houses. He’s seen more of the knights—of the full scope of their powers—than most people would even glimpse in a lifetime; he’s even been in one of the remote Chapels.

Does Roy being a former knight change anything?.. It certainly explains a lot of things—the things that should have clued Tenacity in, but which he decided to ignore, didn’t want to see the truth.

And the truth is, things have been changing gradually already. He doesn’t want this partnership to end. He is growing more and more protective over them—needing them. There is not even a question of whether or not he wants Roy to return from his walk and share a meal with them and discuss the case. There is not a question of whether or not he wants Innocence to take him to a walk through Shadowlair, not a question of whether he wants to let Innocence draw his crossrifle.

But this is precisely the question here: is he growing attached because of them—or because he’s been alone for so long?

He stops in the middle of washing the razor, water splashing in a fan.

_Brother Wolf._

He glances down when cold water slides over his stomach. What’s gotten into him? He hastens to turn off the faucet, wipes the blade clean, reaches for the brush, then realises he should put on the balm first. He uses the stick—and hisses from the sting when he brushes the cut.

How did the Carnophage recognise this protectiveness in him? Those words bounce in his head as he packs his shaving kit up again, wipes the sink and the floor.

Brother Wolf. He isn’t their brother, no. Yes, he is protective—so what? In the caves, where Roy was right there with him, of course he was protective. And the prophetic words about ending up like the Carnophage… They are nothing. The Streumonic ilk like to use such vagueness and sow a seed of worry into the waiting soil of fear. But Tenacity doesn’t intend to let it grow. He recognises it now—he can fight it.

The Carnophage behaved strangely. He didn’t seem to notice Roy at all, not even when Roy touched him. All knights have psi-powers more considerable than those of average humans—shouldn’t Roy be more ‘visible’ to the Carnophage? Tenacity guesses it is something that only Roy himself can clarify—perhaps it is, indeed, something about him being a knight… A _former_ knight, Tenacity corrects himself.

What if Roy doesn’t return from his walk?

Tenacity knows what he _should_ do: fulfil his contract, protect Innocence, get him home—whether or not Roy returns. Then there is what he _wants_ to do…

He combs his hair, looking at himself in the mirror. He should stop thinking of his own wants and start thinking of what they need: safety, a return home… Him minding his own business. They don’t want him—they are just dependent on him right now, and he should ensure they are well, that is all.

He puts on his pants and throws on a shirt without buttoning it, then goes to the kitchen. Hearing Roy’s voice, he stops—and Roy looks up at him from the table.

Roy has changed completely into his leathers, only the jacket is open and the scarf is absent. Tenacity forbids himself asking whether Roy has decided to leave. Of course he will, after the case!

Roy doesn’t look changed himself, and it’s strange to think that he went out with no protection at all. But with him back, Tenacity feels as though some part of the universe is restored and his heart still aches but isn’t bleeding out.

He wants to punch himself for such feelings and thoughts. He’s a little too old for this: ‘the world restored’, ‘they belong together’… They’ve known each other only for a couple of days. It’s just his stupid need to belong to someone. He thought he was over this misplaced need to define himself through his ability to protect—but apparently, he’s not. They deserve so much more than him and his issues—he won’t allow himself to use them.

‘Tenacity? Join us. We were just talking about the Carnophage’s words with Roy.’

The lunch is reheated stew. The plate is already set for him, and he brushes aside another wave of misplaced aching. Instead, he thinks back and snorts. ‘Roy, does this explain your cooking as though for an entire regiment?’

Roy doesn’t have a plate in front of him, but there is one on the drying rack, freshly wet. ‘I’m more used to cooking for myself alone. The only experience with measuring for others goes years back to kitchen duty for the entire chapter, so I… might have misjudged a little.’ He is tense as he says it, but not skittish.

Years back. Spirits and Shadow.

‘I know what that’s like, cooking for a big family,’ Innocence grumbles, stabbing vegetables with force. He gives a piece of jerky to Temperance without even looking at his hands.

And just like that, the tension is eased. It is not all right yet, but Tenacity’s worries feel less catastrophic now: the four of them are here, sharing a meal in peace,—they a world of their own.

He chuckles. ‘Aren’t you an only child, Innocence?’

‘How do you know?’

Tenacity taps his left ear.

‘Oh.’ Innocence blushes so easily, and it warms Tenacity’s heart. It’s so honest.

He’s noticed that Innocence’s ear is pierced back in the camp. He leans back, trying to imagine light glinting off of a small earring in Innocence’s ear, though now it’s empty. Silver? Gold? Gold is better, it would give a warmer glow to Innocence’s skin. Or perhaps a crystal, a blue one for his eyes.

‘You volunteered?’

Innocence drops his gaze, pokes his food. ‘No, I was drafted. They said it was an emergency, the needs of the Guild, that the “only child” rule was just tradition not codified in law. Dad and Mum were enraged and Pa promised he would bring the matter into the High Court—because, _incidentally_, many of the Militia members with a single child were targeted by the draft officers. I hope my parents have succeeded. Nobody should go through it, not willingly and not, especially not, unwillingly.’ Innocence’s hands shake, Tenacity notices, before he curls them into fists.

‘I hope so, too,’ Roy says. ‘We’ll find out when—’ He falls silent, gaze glassy, and then breathes out: ‘Spirits…’

Temperance has gone still also, and then he puts his head on Innocence’s shoulder.

‘What?’

A text is projected into the air in front of Innocence. It is short, and it takes Tenacity a few moments to read it in reverse.

His heart sinks.

Innocence breathes out, shakes his head. ‘No, it… It must be a mistake. I would have known, I would have been sent a notice, right?’ He looks up at Roy, then at Tenacity—eyes filling with tears. ‘And even if they are… arrested, they must be all right, yes? There will be… There will be protests, you can’t just arrest so many people with no… No nothing!’

‘Innocence…’

He crumbles onto the table as though all bones are torn out of him, and stays still. No sobbing, no shaking—it is this stillness that settles a terrible fear in the pit of Tenacity’s stomach.

Roy reaches for Innocence—and retracts his hand, drops it to his side. Temperance, the best dog, nudges Innocence’s shoulder and chitters, antennae moving. Innocence stirs and sits up, wipes his face with the heel of his palm. ‘I’m okay,’ he says in a broken voice.

‘Like fuck you are,’ Roy replies. He doesn’t attempt to comfort Innocence with touch again—he looks like he wants to, but doesn’t know how to do it. ‘We can see you are not. There is nothing wrong with that.’

‘Don’t tell me we can find them,’ Innocence says, his voice becoming as steel. ‘They and others—they weren’t afraid to speak against the Dowser and his military friends. They are either dead now or…’ He shakes his head, looks to the side, his face flushed—from tears? anger? Tenacity thinks, both. ‘Probably better if they are dead. I’m sorry. I need a little time.’ He gets up and walks out, shoulders hunched.

Roy closes his eyes tight and his lips move silently. Tenacity reads: _‘I’m sorry.’_

The Militia only started forming when Tenacity left his birth home, and was growing bigger, difficult to dismiss when he fled Shadowlair after his mentor was murdered.

The Militia, as far as he can remember, was mostly middle-class—and Innocence, once he’s shrugged off the constraints of the camp, embodies it obviously, with his eloquent speech, his drawing and writing, not burdened by the gnawing need to just survive, and yet aware of that need in others. No wonder he was being picked at in the camp.

Tenacity usually tries not to get too deep into the news of Shadowlair but needs to keep his nose to the wind, and he knows things were getting tense. Dowser Wisdom has been a charismatic, populist leader from the start, a war hero who won Aurora the village of Green Hope and its farms, and the people placed a lot of faith and hope on him. He even made an alliance with the Militia, promising more democratic freedoms, and an unlikely alliance with the Jians—escalating the tension with both Abundance and the Feds, because officially, the Secreta is not supposed to meddle in politics. But what people hoped for, hasn’t been delivered.

Voices of dissent and opposition were rising.

Perhaps it shows just how good of a politician Wisdom is after all: even the Underworks were quiet about the Militia arrests. What people feared before Wisdom, is coming to pass through him: Aurora turning into a military state like Abundance, needing inner and outer enemies, honing the concept of perpetual war, ‘Us vs. Them’.

A few days ago, Tenacity would have shrugged at all this: it’s been a long time coming, and he’s a bastard who doesn’t care about anyone. Serenity is long gone, and Charity can mind herself—there is no-one else to care about in Shadowlair.

But now… It’s personal—because of Innocence. And he cares, even though he’s still a bastard, even though he _shouldn’t_, it’s not his business.

He gets up, looks at Roy. ‘You coming?’

Roy frowns. His gaze seems to be turned inward. ‘No. Sorry. I… need to think.’

Tenacity forces out a smile. He wants to reassure Roy just as much as he wants to reassure Innocence. ‘You can come at any time you want.’

He goes to the bedroom. He can see the great mass of Temperance in the middle, and a small form on one of the beds, bundled in blankets.

‘I’m not… not crying.’ Innocence’s voice comes muffled from the bundle.

‘Of course not.’ He sits down on the bed, pets Temperance’s head.

The bundle hiccups.

He reaches out and completes the motion that Roy started, pulling Innocence into his arms.


	8. The Fourth Dream

The Wolf was running. He thought it was the forest again, but it was different, hilly, it smelled of life, of green things and giving earth, of flowers about to bloom. The dawn was near, no longer just a memory of a dream. It was a quiet hour but in the quiet here and there he heard rustles and flaps, skitters and scuttles.

The grass was soft to his feet and a light wind cooled his body and the close scent of dawn numbed the pain.

There was a golden light dancing ahead. Could it be the dawn? He was tired and he wished the sun warmed his body. He longed for a place where he could give rest to his feet, where he could find sustenance and water and sleep, where he could not dream.

And if the golden light was a fire…

He was so tired.

He ran and ran and ran and ran, and the golden light danced to the left of him, to the right of him, ahead of him, behind him—out there, out of reach. Luring him? Guiding him? It was quick, and the chase gave the second wind to the Wolf: he was content to just run to that elusive goal, that promise, even as his heart ached for its beauty.

The hope of it was enough at those moments.

The ground was rising under his feet—and the golden light was moving steadily ahead of him now. He thought he could see a silhouette in that light… His heart was beating faster: he wasn’t alone anymore.

He flew out into a clearing—and tipped his head up. The golden light was standing on a hillock, regal and warm but so beautiful he couldn’t think of it falling on someone such as himself—and yet it fell, and soothed him.

That light was the Stag. The crown of antlers was like branches of a mighty tree and yet the Stag’s head was held high as though that crown weren’t heavy. The powerful body rippled with energy held tightly in check. The Wolf couldn’t say whether the glow was coming from the Stag—or the Stag _was_ the glow. As the Wolf watched, the light grew warmer, reaching out, touching him. He closed his eyes.

‘You are hurting, Wolf,’ the Stag said, voice golden.

‘I am not a wolf, but a man. Others tried to help me: took my claws and my skin and my fangs—but as you see, I still look like this.’

‘You are tired, Wolf.’

‘I am, very.’ He lowered himself into the grass, basking in the light. The dawn was near but still some time away.

‘We shall look into the matter differently,’ said the Stag, coming closer, the grass not bending under powerful legs. ‘You might appear like a wolf all the way through—so we must see what your heart is. Remind you what you are. Shall we?’

The Wolf got up, leaning into the golden light. ‘Yes. Yes, see into my heart, look at what I am!’

The Stag bent the crowned head—and charged, piercing the Wolf’s chest.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes Tenacity a few moments to realise he’s awake and staring at the dark ceiling. Temperance whines in his sleep and rolls onto his side, plates scraping the floor.

Innocence is breathing evenly, deeply, tucked to Tenacity’s side, one hand on Tenacity’s chest. It is light and warm and reassuring.

Roy didn’t come.

Tenacity glances across the dark room, outlines of the scarce things familiar, but the other bed remains undisturbed. There are traces of that scent, however, the metallic scent: Roy stood on the threshold, but didn’t cross it. Innocence, by contrast, carries the smell of sweat and earth and soap—things alive, things tender and strong, fragile and powerful. Homely.

Tenacity moves Innocence’s hand carefully off his chest, pulls the blanket up over Innocence’s round shoulder. Moves by touch, by scent, by sound. Innocence sighs. He smells of the sweet salt of tears also. Tenacity wants to stand guard, his rifle at the ready, fangs bared at anyone who comes too close.

Innocence reminds him of his latest dream for some reason.

He lowers his feet on the floor. Temperance doesn’t stir, antennae vibrating in his sleep. Tenacity pulls his shirt on, pads through the dark truck into the kitchen. And finds the metallic scent thicker there. ‘Why aren’t you asleep, _Roy bach_?’

‘Don’t need much of it.’

He doesn’t know what to do. He feels adrift, as though…

‘Another dream, Old Hound?’

He sweeps his hair back, though a short strand stubbornly falls onto his forehead. He considers turning the lights on, Roy just an outline on the sofa, but decides against it. ‘Yeah. Not a nightmare, but… I don’t know. It was even pleasant. Calming. Think it’s because of the Streumonic activity and me being an artist?’

It sounds strange. He never considered himself an artist—he just sketches things and designs things sometimes. Which… probably fits the definition of an artist. He’s so used to the thought that artists are… like Innocence. Inspired, _good—_and he’s a bastard, he doesn’t have the right to create. He doesn’t even ‘invent’—he sketches things that are in front of him, or from his memory, designs something useful with patterns he sees somewhere.

It appears to be enough for the Streumonic creatures.

‘Might be,’ Roy says. ‘What did you see there? You described it as a “strange place”.’

‘Don’t you remember?’ He finds a chair and straddles it, folds his hands on its back.

Talking in the darkness feels intimate and yet gives privacy, and he hopes it puts Roy at ease. But then, maybe Roy can see him in the dark, or sense him in some way—like Tenacity can feel his metallic, electric scent.

‘There is nothing to remember: I didn’t see what you saw.’

It sounds strange. Then he recalls what happened. ‘They are blind to you, don’t they? Shouldn’t you be more visible than I?’

‘I was cloaked. The scene was created for you specifically, it appears, though I saw the Carnophage and… shared the space, but not the details.’ The sofa creaks as Roy shifts. ‘It’s difficult to explain. Innocence thinks we can glean more information from that constructed environment, and I agree.’

Tenacity feels a flush of pride. They work together, and it is good, to not work alone anymore. He closes his eyes, trying to recall the scene—but it is hard to grasp, wispy like a dream…

‘Don’t force it,’ Roy’s voice sounds gently in the darkness. ‘You have encountered Streumonic creatures before, haven’t you?’

Long jaws full of needle teeth, like a parody of a good Martian hound; white slits for eyes or nostrils—impossible to say—along an oblong head. Short, underdeveloped hands with hooks on the stubby fingers; a thick smooth carapace, covering the body from the end of the maw to the short tail—and the soft segmented belly in an off-white—

The reek in his mouth—foul and acrid, he needs to get rid of it. He had a bottle of—

‘Tenacity.’ The tender voice tethers him to the darkness.

He drops his forehead on his folded hands. There is no foul taste—there is Roy’s metallic scent, and Roy is all right, and Temperance is guarding Innocence—who is not all right, but safe here for now. The curve of the chair’s back is warm under Tenacity’s hands.

He tracks Roy’s moving: off of the sofa, to the kitchen counter—effortless despite the darkness, as though they’ve been sharing this space for years and the placement of things is familiar. Roy opens the teapot—a very faint flowery scent wafts out, purple and orange—then closes it again. Takes a mug from the drying rack, fills halfway, by the sound of it, with tea. Comes to him, holds the mug out. ‘Drink.’

Tenacity closes his fingers on it, aches for contact—but Roy is already moving away, and Tenacity doesn’t want to hold him even though he needs him.

The tea is cold and too strong, turning his stomach almost—but it is good also, a real physical sensation to focus on. He can sense a faint trace of Roy’s touch on the ceramic. Half-closing his eyes and sipping, letting the bitterness open on his tongue, he traces the scent-silhouette of Roy: the gold of his skin, the blue of the metal-electricity, the pulsating red—the colour of the blood-rush, the white lingering from the ceramic. He lets himself focus more: here is the golden-green outline of Innocence from the dinner time, and the rainbow of Temperance: he acquires scents of his environment.

There is the contract, there is Roy being a former knight, there is Innocence’s tragedy and the problem of the Metastreum—but there is all this, right here.

A strange sense of peace envelops him. They are here, and he can protect them for now—he is enough. He has a purpose again.

‘Old Hound? This is a Martian worm-hunting truck, isn’t it?’

The peace isn’t ripped off of him—but he is aware of the encroaching bitter cold beyond it. Of course Roy would notice. And Tenacity is tired of cutting himself off of the pain. Let it run its course—he is ready for it.

‘It is.’

‘But you are not a worm-hunter.’

‘I am an honorary worm-hunter only.’

‘And a worm-hunting truck cannot be sold, only given. Bequeathed. There are two cots, but one wasn’t used for a very long time. Suits are in pairs, and there are weapons that don’t fit your style and your hand. Tenacity… Who was the other?’

He huffs, runs his palm over his eyes. ‘Didn’t pin you for someone who would pry.’

‘I’m not prying. I just need to know.’

He breathes in, out, in, out. He can’t deny, can’t pretend he doesn’t know who Roy is asking about.

‘The former owner of my truck. A worm-hunter, not honorary, but full. We were friends. Partners. Lovers. We loved each other—but we weren’t _in_ love… I don’t think I can explain.’

‘I understand. What it was. Though I’ve never…’ Roy trails off.

‘There are rumours that knights can’t experience love.’

Roy huffs. ‘Yeah, I heard that shit. We… They. The knights have the full range: romantic, platonic, familial love, sexual attraction or the lack of it. Just like everyone else. Though trines are impossible to explain to strangers—but they are not for strangers, so they are not required to be explained.’

_We._ Tenacity can guess that it isn’t straightforward rejection for someone who grew up there. It’s not that easy. He is familiar with that also.

‘His name,’ he says quietly, ‘was Futility Krypti. We were on a hunt, and… And were attacked by those small fuckers, Formas, they picked him clean, nothing was left, nothing, not even bones…’ Tears roll down onto his chest, and he covers his eyes with his palm.

Warm hands close on him, and Innocence rests his chin on his head. Tenacity turns his face, hides it on Innocence’s neck—and hates himself for it, but he can’t stop the tears. He doesn’t question Innocence’s appearance—of course Innocence would know, and would come.

Two years—he should have forgotten by now, but he never told anyone. He didn’t have anyone to tell this.

He squeezes his eyes shut until his eyelids hurt, but it doesn’t stop the tears either—they roll down and down, burning hot. He twists, wraps his arms around Innocence—the bony body fragile under his touch, and warm from sleep—and he cries from fear and pain that festered all those long Martian years, scattered throughout the truck like shards of bones that he never found.

A gust of air tickles the back of his neck, and Temperance paws at his side. Through their link, he feels worry and sympathy and the echo of that loneliness that drew them together, years ago; the loneliness they recognised in each other.

He startles when he hears Roy moving—but Innocence is holding him close. His face is hot, blotchy probably. He feels like the tears are burning away his skin, baring him.

The lumo strips start glowing over the kitchen counter, and he wishes it stayed dark. That way, they can’t see his face, even though everything else is more intense.

Roy takes the tin with salt and fills a cup with water. ‘Futility Krypti. Is that his full name?’

Tenacity moves one hand away from Innocence, sniffles, runs a palm over his face. ‘Yeah. Imagine that.’

‘Haven’t done this in a long while,’ Roy murmurs, seemingly to himself. Then he scoops a palmful of salt from the tin, and lets it spill slowly into the cup, and then he…

It is Roy’s voice—but lower, and higher, and more—multiplied droning, as though the very air is vibrating with it. It harmonises and then falls apart and harmonises again, in a rhythm that is felt rather than understood.

‘Water leaves the salt behind as it fills a well,’ Roy says in a melodious voice—two voices, three, more—the droning continues in the background. ‘And so we are born. We end as water ends—returning to salt, and so the cycle continues. Where you stepped, Futility, water welled up; and where you fell, it poured back into the ground, mixing with salt.’ Roy lifts the cup in both hands, salt having run out, then brings it to Tenacity.

He looks up at Roy, meets the tenderness of his eyes.

‘Your memory is water on our lips—a blessing; the salt of our tears follows you,’ Roy says.

Tenacity drinks of it: it is as salty as his tears, and it washes away the sourness in his mouth, and he feels… cleaner. Calmer. Comforted.

Roy shares the water with Innocence, the two of them not breaking eye contact as Innocence drinks, and Temperance is given the drink also: Roy dips his fingers in it and Temperance laps the salt off of them. The rest is finished by Roy, and the light illuminates his profile as he tilts his head back to drink.

He looks ancient, even though the lack of the frown makes him look young also. Immortal. Ethereal, endlessly beautiful—and yet very earthly at the same time, with the stubble, and shadows under his eyes, and faint scars on his bare right hand. Not untouchable.

Tenacity’s head spins lightly. He looks away—and meets Innocence’s gaze. Both of them have been looking at Roy. The shared small secret is another thread of connection between them, transforming the embarrassing moment into something different: Roy’s captivating quality is an objective fact, and their fascination is the proof of it, not a personal failing of either of them.

The last drops of water pat down onto the sink. Roy has upended the cup over it, and he shakes it, letting the them fall. ‘My stew and soup hardly constitute as a lavish feast,’ Roy says in his usual voice, the droning fading away, ‘but it’s the principle of the thing that counts.’ He washes the cup and puts it on the drying rack. ‘I’m not in the Order anymore, and never will be, but I have all the necessary training, should you need it.’

Tenacity understands Roy means it as an offer to Innocence also—and Innocence nods.

Tenacity rubs Innocence’s back, leans away. ‘Thank you, both of you.’ He doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Their days together are running out, he doesn’t want to waste time on awkwardness. They saw him crying and comforted him each in his own way. ‘We… Me and Futility. Neither of us had a family at the time, and we were on Europa and I never had the opportunity…’ Tears choke him into silence again.

Temperance nudges him and chitters. The tears welling up in his eyes are of relief now rather than pain. ‘Yeah.’ He rubs Temperance’s metal jaw. It is not entirely smooth, but scratched and gouged. They are alike. ‘And then me and Ranny found each other, and he became my family.’

‘Futility would be glad for it,’ Roy says—not in a hushed voice, but evenly, casually.

The name, spoken after years of silence, doesn’t strike Tenacity as odd. Roy handles it with care, and Tenacity is glad to give it to him. Now, it is free.

He gets up, patting Temperance on the side, goes to the sink and washes his face. Roy and Innocence are busy at his side reheating food and making more tea, and Temperance gets in everyone’s way to beg for scraps.

It is good.

He doesn’t feel like a traitor: the silence, the drinking, the cutting himself off of all the memories seem more like something Futility would disapprove of, compared to this. Tenacity tries to recall what colour Futility’s eyes were, what his voice sounded like—and can’t, but it also feels right. The finality and the letting go.

He sits down, and a warm mug is pressed into his hands and a quilt is wrapped around his shoulders. Roy bends to Innocence slightly and tells him something, and Innocence flashes a quick smile. Innocence looks still worn around the edges, as though he needs years of sleep—but the crushing despair is gone for the moment. He doesn’t slouch as much, there is less of the jerky nervousness in his gestures, and the light falls on his sharply-cut cheekbones just so… Perhaps his grief is swept aside for now by care for Tenacity. Should he feel selfish for it?

They all are using each other—perhaps that is how it should be, it is what being together means—even though it won’t last.

He closes his eyes, sipping tea that burns his tongue. ‘It was a cave—but now that I think about it, it was more like a great hall.’

The sound of activity hushes. He follows their movements by scent: Roy leans on the counter, a mug of his own in his hands, and Innocence is on a chair, Temperance by his feet, the best hound.

He continues, encouraged by their attention: ‘There were columns—a whole forest of them—and the chamber felt cavernous, but at the same time the ceiling seemed to be low.’ He tries to grasp the feeling of it. ‘Double ceiling, maybe? I’m not sure. It was dark—but there was that strange light, flowing down— no, wait, _up_ the walls, like glowing water. The floor was strangely moundy, uneven, up and down, and with a give and a dry quality like grav—’ He grips the mug, trying to push away the memory now. ‘Oh, Spirits. It was not gravel, it was—’

‘Bones,’ Roy says. ‘The floor was covered in bones.’

‘You said you didn’t see it.’ He looks at Roy. He doesn’t mean it as an accusation, just as a clarification.

Roy is frowning again, flexing the fingers of his left hand—‘counting the beads’. ‘No, I didn’t—but I know the place you are describing. It is known among the Metastreumonic creatures.’

He thinks on it, rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘It didn’t feel like I was transported. I thought it was a part of the caves system.’

‘No, you weren’t teleported. It was re-created.’ Roy taps his mug, his gaze in the middle distance. ‘What you describe is similar to the complex found underground in the Noctis Labyrinth.’

‘There is nothing there.’ But words die in his throat. Noctians know there is something—someone—in ‘the heart of the Labyrinth’, as they call it, and nobody can find words to describe what they see there. It leaves a mark on everyone in different ways.

Tenacity knows himself: he’s been there.

‘It is not clear how it exists—but it does. There were many mysterious encounters there.’ Roy lifts his head, as though only now emerging from his thoughts. ‘In any case, the fact that the Carnophage re-created it as his place of choice gives us a clue.’

Innocence leans forward. ‘But if it is known to the Carnophage—he was in pain, wasn’t he?—he might have chosen it without meaning to. As a sort of… happy place.’

Roy tilts his head to the shoulder. ‘Yes… This is a possibility. I haven’t thought of that.’

Innocence drops his gaze.

‘What _was_ your thinking?’ Tenacity prompts. He can admit, he feels safer knowing that there is someone trained to deal with the Streumonic creatures, especially when they pose a threat.

‘That it is an invitation,’ Roy says. He takes a sip, pauses, swallows. ‘“Where everyone else is” might mean “dead”—’ Tenacity nods, he figured so, ‘—but if they reached for you specifically…’ Roy frowns. ‘No, my theory misses something. The Carnophage might have shown the caves alone. Showing you that specific complex, “The Tombs”, assumes your familiarity with it. Unless it was, as Innocence said, subconscious.’’

Tenacity looks into his mug. ‘The Carnophage kept calling me “Brother Wolf”,’ he says, and his stomach turns. The Streumonic furry bastard assumed he’s a wolf—so what? Roy himself calls him a hound. It’s their living in metaphors and riddles, it means nothing.

‘Ah,’ Roy says. ‘So he did assume familiarity. Alright, then my theory goes like this: someone attacked the rovers, and the Metastreumonic creatures were nearby or otherwise felt the commotion, witnessed it. The Carnophage might have been wounded and was left behind as a messenger. It is unlikely that the general’s people were moved far: the camp system would have noticed, and the nearest facility is not that far either. So perhaps they are underground, in the old mines. And the Carnophage showed it in a way that should clue you in.’

‘Why would they do that? The Streumonic creatures. Why help people at all?’

Roy runs his right hand through his hair, forehead to back. ‘Because Camp Nineteen is near, because it is those people’s home planet and they have their beloveds waiting for them.’

‘How… How does the camp affect it?’ Innocence asks. His voice is quieter, uncertain—he sounds more like when they just met him.

‘The Metastreum… They pick up emotions, they _live_ in them, grow through them, embody them. Often, misery breeds monsters quite literally: everyone knows about the Martian outbreak and the first sightings of the Manducae. But sometimes… Misery inspires sympathy. They try to save those in pain—with variable results, since they are not very good at thinking like mortals. And even one person,’ Roy glances at Innocence, ‘trying to do good, even if only to themselves, one person compassionate enough can inspire the Metastreum. Deeds do not go unnoticed, they cause ripples in the world even as they are of seemingly no consequence.’

‘And the attackers?’

‘Fuck if I know. But I severely doubt the Streumonic creatures would use that explosive. It is too… material, too cruel. Too human.’ Roy’s mouth twists.

‘Why take the bodies anyway?’ Innocence asks. ‘No demands have followed, it doesn’t look like abduction for money. The opposition raiders… they would have issued demands also.’

‘Or they just want chaos,’ Tenacity grumbles. ‘Sorry, kitten. I don’t trust people who only want to dismantle the old order and “usher in a brave new age” without concrete, realistic steps.’

‘I understand,’ Innocence nods. ‘But if the general and her people were killed, why _move_ the bodies? To cover the tracks? If it’s the Federal forces or… General Grant’s agents, they could disguise themselves as raiders and use appropriate weaponry and then blame it on the real raiders. If it is raiders themselves and they wanted to make a point, then leaving bodies is only sealing it. And if they want the blame to be on the Feds or General Grant, they could use disguise also.’

Roy sighs. ‘Your reasoning is logical, Innocence. This is falling apart. We are missing something.’

Tenacity runs his fingers through his hair. ‘People not always react logically. If, say, they encountered Streumonic presence—and _something_ wounded the Carnophage, didn’t it?—it might have scared them out of their minds.’

‘It seems following the… invitation is our only option right now,’ Innocence notes. ‘But how do we do it? If… whoever they are… are using the old mines while on paper the caves and shafts are officially closed…’ He trails off, then gets up. ‘I think I have something.’ Temperance huffs as he is disturbed out of his dose. Innocence pads out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, then returns with his journal. He flips through it, then nods to himself. ‘Yes, I remember it right. There is an old entrance into the mines through the camp. Those who’s been there for a while tell newcomers all sorts of stories…’ He frowns, expression close to Roy’s. ‘I wonder whether they might be partially true. They say that strange creatures can be glimpsed down below. Usually the overseers send someone to search for leftovers from the mining: tools, valuable deposits, drone parts and the like. It’s a camp nobody thinks about,’ he finishes, gaze dropping.

His embarrassment for the camp and, unbelievably, sympathy are astonishing.

‘I think you are right, kitten,’ Tenacity nods. ‘It’s worth checking.’

Innocence’s lips press into a thin line, and Tenacity hastens to reassure him: ‘You don’t have to go back there yourself.’

‘I think I should go alone,’ Roy says. He is looking at Innocence also. ‘The camp has seen me with you, Old Hound, they can try to stop me but they know they really shouldn’t. I’ll check the mines, but also I’d like to talk to the facility systems properly, they might remember something.’

What a peculiar way of wording it, but there is no harm, and Tenacity thinks Roy is best equipped for hacking.

‘I think you should avoid anyone seeing you get down into the mines,’ Innocence suggests. ‘Even if nobody in the camp is connected to the disappearances, sending prisoners down there while the mines are sealed because of danger breaks the laws, and the overseers wouldn’t want anyone knowing it.’

‘They might suspect you could tell us, but I see your point.’ Roy nods. ‘I can do that.’

‘We shall gear up,’ Tenacity says, ‘in case you need support. I will keep “Coccum” close.’

‘Perhaps,’ Innocence says slowly, then lifts his eyes, ‘we should stay away? As though Roy’s visit is of no importance and we are busy with other things.’

‘No,’ Roy says, ‘I’d prefer you stay close. I will do something to make them think I left them after talking with the systems, and I need “Coccum” close by for that.’

Innocence nods. ‘I understand.’

Tenacity gets up, patting his thighs. ‘Are we good? Let’s get going, then.’

***

Sitting in the cumbersome heavy suit in the pilot chair is not very comfortable, but Tenacity is ready to endure it for Roy’s sake. Innocence occupies the other chair, his lighter suit more accommodating, and Temperance is pacing, his claws clanking on the floor. He stops, flops at Innocence’s side, tickles Tenacity’s hand, asking for pets, then gets up again.

Tenacity shares his anxiety. What if the camp overseers or prisoners attack Roy? What if he gets into the mine shafts and a cave-in happens? What if he meets the Streumonic creatures and they attack him? Needle teeth and hard carapace and—

‘He’ll be alright,’ Innocence says quietly, his gaze on the front screen where the facility looms silent, the image fake-illuminated artificially by the truck’s systems. Innocence is gripping a pencil, and the journal lies open on his lap—but he isn’t drawing and isn’t writing. ‘He promised.’

Innocence is an adult, and Tenacity doesn’t need to tell him that promises are easily broken—Tenacity wants to reassure him that it won’t happen this time. He doesn’t say anything, however.

He sets his elbow on the armrest and puts his chin on his palm, fingers close to his mouth. Then he feels heat on his right cheek and golden threads in Innocence’s scent.

He glances at Innocence—and Innocence sits up straighter, head whipping away.

Huh.

Has he been blind all this time, thinking himself the only one who—

‘I found a lairian,’ Innocence murmurs. They have only the light from the dashboard and the screen—but Tenacity can sense the spike in Innocence’s temperature, can see colour rising on his cheeks.

‘In the arsenal?’

‘I think that compartment should be more accurately called “storage room for various things the owner has put out of sight”.’

He laughs. It might be his nerves—but mostly it is Innocence. He has such a glowing presence, not overwhelming like Roy, but quieter, reassuring that everything will be all right, and things might be bad now but there is hope still. Tenacity, however, doesn’t want to linger on this impression or to force it upon Innocence. Innocence isn’t here to reassure him, and to hang onto his presence would be an insult to what Innocence is. He isn’t here to be anyone’s crutch. He is his own person.

And a damn handsome young man.

‘The lairian is mine,’ Tenacity says, dragging himself out of his own thoughts. ‘I used to play.’

‘I’d like to listen to it,’ Innocence murmurs, face turned away from him.

‘If you agree, Old Hound,’ Roy’s voice sounds through the speakers, ‘I will sing with you.’

Innocence leans forward immediately. ‘Roy! How is it going?’

They have been maintaining silence since Roy has left an hour ago, and it’s been unbearable.

‘Good. Talked with the systems, but it’ll take me a while to process their info. Meanwhile…’ He sounds occupied. ‘Hold on. Can you see it?’

Tenacity leans forward himself: the front entrance to the facility opens, and a lone figure in a familiar suit leaves it.

‘Majesty? They kicked you out?’

‘Oh, you see it? Fantastic. That’s not me, that’s a clone. It should go to the truck and disappear.’

On closer inspection, Tenacity notices that the figure is indeed not Roy—the differences are in the smallest details: it is less elegant in its leaps across the surface, less precise, less… Just _less_. They watch as it approaches the truck. Tenacity flips through the cameras: it goes into the outer chamber…

Temperance gets to his feet and trots to it, but after a few moments he returns, head handing.

Tenacity smiles, patting his back. ‘Roy hasn’t returned yet, has he?’

Temperance lets out a long hiss and flops on the floor, his head on his front paws.

‘Sorry, buddy,’ Roy says. ‘Okay, now they should be thinking I left.’

‘Should we move?’ Tenacity asks.

‘Yes. I’ll send coordinates, wait there. I…’ Again, he sounds occupied. ‘Alright, I’m going down. I don’t trust the radio here, so I will be rerouting my signal through the link to Temperance.’

Temperance lifts his head at the mention of his name, then tilts it to the side, opens his mouth…

‘Like this.’

Innocence startles at the sound of Roy’s voice coming from Temperance, and Tenacity can sympathise fully.

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes, Majesty.’ Tenacity pets Temperance.

‘Fantastic,’ comes after a slight delay. ‘I might need you, though hopefully I won’t.’

Temperance goes quiet again, lowering his head on his front paws, antennae moving restlessly.

Roy sends a set of coordinates through Temperance, and Tenacity sets the truck on the course, away from the camp. He hopes even this physical distance might help Innocence.

‘How are the knights maintaining the blockade?’ Innocence murmurs after a while, seemingly to himself.

Tenacity sits up and nearly smacks himself on the forehead. How, really? If he needs to get Innocence or Roy, or both, away from Ganymede, and fast… Would he be able to do it?

How far is he ready to go for them? For virtual strangers. Is he that desperate?

‘That’s a good question, Innocence,’ he grumbles, displeased with himself. He’s been so caught with them he’s forgotten about the knights. ‘There doesn’t seem to be an armada on the orbit, and…’ He flicks through Ganymedian news networks. ‘No official news either.’

‘I wonder whether they’d be able to stop a craft leaving the planet. Like whoever did all this to the general or… Or whoever.’ Innocence drops his gaze to his journal, but Tenacity doubts he sees anything but whatever’s troubling him.

‘I’m so angry,’ Innocence says very quietly, so much that Tenacity almost misses it, watching the empty rocky hills of Ganymede. ‘Sad, but mostly angry. With myself. I feel so powerless, I _need_ to do something…’ He closes his journal very carefully, ties the leather strip holding it closed. ‘I’m thinking of contacting the Resistance. Joining them.’

Tenacity flicks the front screen off, allows the autopilot to handle the craft, turns to Innocence. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. Your choice, of course, but… They didn’t seem to do anything about the arrests of the Militia members.’

‘My parents weren’t with the Resistance!’ Blue eyes turn to him, dark with anger—though Tenacity doesn’t know who its target is.

‘Perhaps not,’ he says, trying to keep his tone even, but not to make it sound like he’s mocking Innocence’s conviction, anger, his grief. ‘But they were in the opposition to many things, the way they were run in Aurora. If the Resistance had been good, they would have caught wind of the planned arrests and helped the Militia, or at least warned them. Marco always says it’s about helping the people, right? Or, if they didn’t know, they might have helped the Militia fight, they would have roused the whole city, they—’

‘Stop.’ Innocence’s whisper strikes Tenacity hard: it is so helpless and heated at the same time, Innocence biting his lips, fingers digging into the leather binding of the journal.

But Tenacity is a bastard, isn’t he? He doesn’t issue platitudes. Roy would be better with that. ‘My point is,’ he continues just as evenly, ‘the Militia got arrested, and the Resistance didn’t do shit about it. Why do you think they would do anything for _you_?’

‘At least I will fight! For my people, my city—unlike you, who ran away when…’ Innocence stops, shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breaths, eyes huge, stormy, his cheeks ruddy.

Tenacity gets up slowly. His body feels heavy _only_ because of the suit, nothing else. ‘Monitor the situation, will you?’ he says to the both of them. Temperance’s eye stalks are waving. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

He goes to the bathroom on stiff legs, sits down on the edge of the tub. Another luxury. His work makes his chance of dying during each subsequent hunt incrementally higher, so he allows himself little luxuries. He isn’t getting younger but, it seems, he’s getting stupid.

He runs his fingers through his hair.

‘I can’t say whether either of you is wrong or right,’ Roy’s voice sounds—with that peculiar echoing quality that linking through cyberspace lends to a voice. ‘But I wish I could stop you fighting.’

‘You heard all of it?’

‘Some. Temperance brought my attention to it.’

‘Yeah, a real spectacle, aren’t we?’

The delay in communication is enough that Tenacity gets to regret every single word.

‘Don’t be such an arse, Tenacity,’ Roy says, a Central Lairian accent suddenly slipping through, making his tone melodious.

‘_So_ sorry for wanting Innocence to not throw his life away,’ he snarls—and hates himself in the moments of silence that follow as his words get through.

‘Tenacity.’ Nothing else. Just his name, like to a fucking spirit of old. Knowing its name would give power over it.

‘Don’t tell me you are happy about it,’ he tries, reining himself in.

Why does he even care? They are nothing to him, and he’s nothing to them. He _shouldn’t_ be anything. He is unworthy, a bastard—lonely and broken and weak. He is angry for their making him open up, for their seeing right through. Angry with himself, for allowing them. The thought that he is, really, nothing to them, stings more than it should.

‘We can state our thoughts,’ Roy says, and Tenacity is angry for that even tone also, for Roy’s being the reasonable one now. ‘But it is _his_ decision. He is not a child, Tenacity.’

‘I am fucking aware.’ He rakes his fingers through his hair again, pressing nails into the skin, trying to drag himself out of this sandpit.

Spirits. This is exactly the problem. If he had thought of Innocence as a child, as his charge, someone weak, and if Innocence rightfully lashed out at him for that, it would have been fine. But it’s not that. Innocence’s presence… His and Roy’s. It’s messing with Tenacity. He’s been alone for too long, and now he’s latching onto them and he _can’t do that_. Not to them.

‘Roy. Roy, I…’ He isn’t sure what he wants to say, what he _should_ say. _I’m sorry, I’m projecting_…

‘Tenacity.’ It is not intimate anymore, but urgent. ‘I need you three to see this. Sending coordinates.’ And the link goes quiet.

Tenacity scrambles back into the cab. Temperance is shaking himself, segments flaring and settling back tightly. Tenacity catches Innocence’s gaze, and Innocence looks away, puts on the helmet.

Tenacity hasn’t apologised to Roy, and now he might have no time to apologise to Innocence…

Fuck it. Not now.

‘Ready?’

Innocence gives him a short nod. There is a gun on his hip.

Tenacity looks him over, then reaches out and flips the collar, rightens a few clasps. ‘Take care, all right?’

Another nod.

They check their air filters, air tanks, the integrity of their suits—fast, efficient. Innocence’s voice is tense, words curt as they check communication.

Tenacity doesn’t say anything reassuring—doesn’t think he can, now. Temperance is alert but not worried, and Tenacity takes it as a sign that Roy is in no immediate danger.

They jump out of the truck, look around. Temperance sets on a light trot, and they follow.

‘Temperance, where…’ Innocence starts—there is nothing in particular around, just more rocks.

But then Tenacity feels _something. _He can’t say what, and it lasts only for a split second. It feels like when they teleported with Roy, only more… indifferent. Like a brush of shoulders with a stranger instead of the touch of a friend’s guiding hand.

Then it’s gone, and Tenacity forgets the words to describe it—his attention is occupied with a more pressing matter.

They are standing in ‘Enki’. At least, it seems so to Tenacity, although he doesn’t recognise the neighbourhood—or rather, recognises it only because neighbourhoods are largely the same in the dome, from what little he has seen, and differences are noticeable only to the natives. The roof of the dome is far, far above, almost invisible behind the ambient light like on a cloudy day. And yet there is something wrong about it, a quality that is missing, some fraying at the edges.

‘Nothing is moving,’ Innocence breathes out. He sounds equal parts awed and disturbed. ‘Where are we?’

Tenacity recalls that Innocence might have not visited the Ganymedian domes. ‘It’s the biggest dome on the planet, on the leading side.’ He looks around. ‘Even though it’s… not.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ A familiar figure—all the details right this time—is getting closer.

Temperance leaps forward, bounding onto Roy—and to anyone else the sight of a giant hound barrelling onto them would have made them turn round—but this is Roy. He simply pats Temperance’s neck. ‘Good boy. The air is breathable, so you can conserve your suit energy.’ He lifts two hands and takes off his own helmet in a practised motion. Temperance promptly licks his face—and Tenacity quickly shuts down the feedback, though not quickly enough, and the metallic tang of Roy’s skin lingers on his tongue.

‘It’s someone’s _idea_ of the dome,’ Roy says.

The streets are filled with artificial light, good enough to almost be pleasant. It would have been a nice day, but nothing moves, and besides them, there is no-one.

‘Or perhaps a memory,’ Roy adds. He’s frowning, his head tilted to the right shoulder, as though he’s listening to something.

‘Another invitation?’ Innocence asks.

‘No, I don’t think so. Like the underground complex, it _is_ reconstructed from memories—but since Tenacity couldn’t have seen the dome in such detail, and you, Innocence, haven’t seen it at all’—Innocence nods—‘the reconstruction must be from someone else’s memories. Maybe several people—those for whom “Enki” is home.’

‘The general?’ Innocence suggests.

‘And the others,’ Roy adds. ‘This _can_ be just a memory. But I don’t think it is meant as cruelty, to mock them with a place they can’t reach. The Streumonic creatures are rarely intentionally cruel. I think those people might be alive.’

‘What makes you think so?’ Tenacity asks, but only half-heartedly: something isn’t right—apart from everything. Something is changing, coming closer, it makes him want to growl…

‘I think the Streumonic creatures put up this place as an attempt to comfort those people. And you can’t comfort the dead. Also, I am right here with you, and that means…’ Roy trails off, his gaze focusing over Tenacity’s shoulder.

Hairs rise on the nape of Tenacity’s neck—he positions himself between Roy and Innocence and whatever it is—and only then turns around.

Just like the dome itself, they look quite ordinary at the first glance: human figures in identical clothes of red, faces hiding in the shadows of deep hoods. But as the eye takes in more and more details, the mind reels at the strangeness of them: they are too identical, too perfect, standing too still; their red robes are too clean and pressed—immaculate. There are not even slightest differences between the four figures: the same width of shoulders, the same height, the same system of veins on the open forearms.

Impossible. They are an idea of a human figure, not real humans.

Cynicles. He’s heard a theory that they are embodiments of desire—but evidently it is not so, because human desire isn’t universally aimed at a feminine body held as a skewed ideal of a particular culture at a particular time. It is certainly not Tenacity’s desire.

He feels a strange sadness, a sympathy for them, for all Streumonic creatures—shaped, twisted by forces out of their control, from their inclinations to their appearance, and then blamed for the harm they are not responsible for.

‘Brother Wolf,’ one of them says. ‘You’ve come.’

‘And with the young little cat,’ says another. ‘We’ve been waiting.’

‘We don’t know what to do, Brother Wolf,’ says the third.

‘We need your help, Brother Wolf,’ says the fourth.

Synchronously, they reach out to him, repeating ‘Brother Wolf’ over and over until it fills the whole dome, envelops him, pulls him in.

‘I am not your brother!’ he roars and snaps his teeth at them.

They drop their hands, reel back—synchronously, like mirror reflections of one invisible figure.

‘You don’t remember?’

‘You have forgotten!’

‘Brother Wolf!’

‘You are one of us.’

‘You must return.’

‘You can’t be here.’

‘Help us, Brother Wolf.’

He roars again, swipes at them with his claws. ‘I’m not one of you, I’m not!’

‘Let us show you,’ the four say at the same time and hold up four round mirrors. They reflect an elongated maw and gleaming bared fangs and wild eyes and—

He draws back, away, it is false, untrue—he bumps into something hard, catches himself on his hands. It is the kitchen in the truck: the counters, cupboards, the table, sofa, chairs.

He falls to his knees, ignoring the sudden juddering pain from collision with the floor, yanks open the door of the storage and reaches inside. His fingertips brush the cool smooth glass; he slides them up and grabs the bottle neck, and takes it out.

It’s just a bad dream, a terrible nightmare—and he knows how to deal with it, how to make himself forget. He wipes the dust off of the cap, unscrews it. There is half of the bottle left, and he can’t discern the scent when it wafts out—he just needs the burn. He’d settle for anything now.

‘Tenacity, don’t do it.’

Innocence’s voice startles him, and he turns around, barks, ‘I’ll do whatever I want!’

His guts twist when Innocence flinches from his shout.

The lumo strip comes into faint life, and he can see Innocence too clearly: the big eyes, the collar of the suit misaligned again. Innocence is carrying the helmet by the edge. Then Innocence presses his lips tight, clenches a fist, tilts his chin up. ‘I will smash it, then. If you can’t stop yourself.’

He is awash with shame. He has to lean on the counter, and he opens his fingers, and the cap falls into the sink with a clank.

He has to remind himself he has no fangs, no fur. ‘I am _not_ one of them,’ he whispers, and his lips are numb. He tastes the sweetness of blood. He wants to tell Innocence to run, wants to call for Roy so that Roy protects Innocence. So they could protect each other. So that Roy stopped him. Roy can stop him, can’t he? He was a knight.

Innocence’s arms close on him, not allowing him to fall, and he sags into the embrace. ‘I can’t be one of them,’ he murmurs, drops his head on Innocence’s shoulder, the collar scratching his cheek. ‘I have memories, I had a family, a sister… Were they Metastreum also? Or just…’ He can’t say the words. His mind should be running into all directions—but it is empty save for the chilling fog of fear.

‘Tenacity.’ Roy’s voice in the darkness is gentle—a tether like Innocence’s arms. ‘Do you want to know?’

His eyes are burning. He’s falling apart again, and this time it is inappropriate. He is on a hunt, fuck him, and with those he must protect should anything happen. He can’t…

‘He is Tenacity,’ Innocence says simply. ‘_That_ is the truth.’ His hand moves into Tenacity’s mane, and Tenacity wants to rub his face against Innocence’s shoulder.

‘I don’t say he isn’t.’

‘And what… What _do_ you say?’ Tenacity manages, though his voice is far from the drawl he presents to the world. Ice is forming in his stomach, and his legs tremble.

‘Do you want to know?’

He thinks of the strange dreams, of moments of synergy with Temperance. Of the Carnophage, dying, and the Cynicles, asking for his help. He thinks of his sister, dead for years.

‘I want to know what you think.’

‘I think they might be right. There is so…’ Roy pauses—such a strange, uncharacteristic thing. He seems to be so confident usually, knows what he wants, what he needs to do, has a plan for everything. ‘There is no Futility Krypti.’

He huffs. ‘Maybe he changed his name.’

‘There is nobody like that in the worm-hunters’ archives, and this truck, while being a worm-hunting truck, isn’t known to them either. Perhaps I am wrong. We _can_ find out for sure.’

‘Are you going to skin me?’

‘No, that’s not necessary. I can… revive your memories. The truth of them.’

He clenches his teeth, to prevent his jaw from trembling. The question of how Roy plans to accomplish that is faded in his mind, pushed away by the questions of whether he wants it. Has this been a dream all this time? Was Futility real? Is this why he can’t remember Futility’s eyes, the timbre of his voice? But what about the whole truck? What about the drawings, the quick notes on them in a handwriting different from his own? Has he been mourning a phantom?

Has his grief, his pain, his tears been a lie?

He can retreat into the assuredness that it _was_ real—but the doubts would eat him alive, he knows.

He lifts his eyes at Roy. ‘I need it. Help me, Roy.’

When Roy indicates, he sits down. Innocence keeps a hand on his shoulder, and he rubs his cheek on it. Roy stands before him. ‘Try to relax.’ Roy cards his fingers through Tenacity’s hair.

The slight pressure is good, and he only gets to notice that Roy’s left hand is bare—when it rushes in.

Or rather, out.

We didn’t like this world. It was being torn apart—between two sides and the forgotten belt stretched between; it was being torn apart by torment and peace, tension and sorrow. It tasted sour, foul; it tasted cold, biting our tongue. We didn’t like it.

But there were other we on it also, more of us, though not as many as elsewhere, and we could keep to ourselves, away from us in the glowing orbs of eyes on the belt.

We liked the vastness, and other us moving under our feet, in the cold water below, we liked the darkness, we liked the rumble above and below and around. It reminded us of our home. We liked the word, ‘home’. It tasted warm, of blood, and the smell of us, those who did not hunt us. ‘Home’ was red and hot and cold, though not wet like this world, with plenty of us to hunt, and still few enough to avoid if we wanted.

This world was not home, and we weren’t happy, but we was content. We could hunt, and wait until we could go ‘home’.

We could run.

We was following a swarm of us when we noticed we following us, we noticed that we was tired and lost; the swarm of us was hungry, was mindless—and the one us was easy prey. So the swarm us came to we.

We snapped our jaws at the swarm us, as we started to fill with red—but it smelled putrid, it smelled wrong, yellow, the swarm we turned back, scuttled away with a hiss. We were afraid of us.

We came to us lying on the ground. The ground was heavy, burning our feet with cold, scorching our claws—but it wasn’t important. We was bleeding, we smelled yellow though before we smelled red, like ‘home’. We was fading from this heavy world, and we was confused at the yellow—no, not confused. We knew what it was, but we didn’t want to remember.

We was in pain.

We lay down to us, we wrapped ourself around us, and the red was seeping into us. We sang old songs to us, and the yellow started fading. Our fingers dug into our fur—we liked it, it was warm. We was alone, and we knew it—but we was there. We could be not alone but together. We could not change what happened in the heavy world, but it happened in the memories also. So we asked permission to change what happened to us in the memories. We wanted to bring comfort, we wanted red, we wanted give ‘home’… Was we bad?

‘You weren’t bad.’ The gentle voice carries him out in a careful hold, and fingers scratch behind his ear.

We… He has to remember to separate himself—from ‘we’ to ‘I’. Extract himself from his own memory and the memories he shared with Futility—or whatever that man was called. He had chosen ‘Futility’ for himself, however, and that life for himself that Tenacity remembers—and Tenacity gave him a year full of those memories, a life gone differently. And he constructed a life for himself also—so he could share that year with Futility, be his companion, his friend, his lover.

It is so vivid, that life—but the other one, the ‘we’, is vivid also now, familiar somewhere in his bones, in the pulsation of his heart.

His head is cradled to Innocence’s chest, Innocence’s hands around it, as though through the tight contact Innocence wants to drain all the confusion and pain.

And blue and gold, white and red lights dance on Roy’s skin—though right before Tenacity’s eyes they fade away like a dream-memory, but the expression of tenderness, the softness that makes Roy look so young doesn’t disappear.

Tenacity tries his voice, two beings in him aligning: man and wolf. ‘So I _am_ one of them. And my life, my family, everything—is a lie.’

Roy tilts his head. ‘_Are_ you a lie?’

He almost says yes—but it catches on his tongue. All of that… It _was_. The truck is here, his sketches, the songs he remembers how to play and to sing. His sister’s cooking, his father’s derision. Futility.

It _was_—it _is_.

‘But I am one of them.’ Even he can tell he sounds uncertain.

**You always were.** The big form moves, familiar, claws clacking on the floor, bulging eyes dark like midnight sky with a scattering of stars within. Lumo light glints off of the metal sides, breaking, scattering on the plates, on the spinal spikes. **And you are Tenacity. They are not mutually exclusive, Tenacity and the creature. You are many things.**

Tenacity reaches to Temperance, wraps his arms around the notched segmented neck. Temperance smells like green and blue, and gold and red—home, the colours of it. ‘I gave you life, didn’t I,’ he murmurs, even though he cannot say what precise definition of ‘life’ he means. It is… colours. Like ‘home’. ‘Like I gave it to Futility. To myself. To… all this.’

He looks at Innocence, at Roy. What _is_ real? Are they, truly, here? Is this a dream he conjured up in comfort of—whom? Himself? Is this why he is so attached to them, why they feel right?

‘I’ve dreamed you up.’

‘Then,’ Innocence murmurs, and Tenacity feels his fingers weaving through his mane, ‘we’ve dreamed up each other.’

‘Am I the dreamer—or the dreamed?’ he says, mostly rhetorically.

‘The answer is—both,’ Roy replies. He doesn’t look disturbed by the fact that the person who pulled him into a job turned out to be a Metastreumonic creature. Roy strokes a spike on Temperance’s back.

‘Fifty Serum for your thoughts, Majesty?’

Roy shakes his head. ‘I was just thinking… You are quite unique, Tenacity. The Streumonic creatures keep together, and you were alone. Though knights are supposed to have a trine also, and look at me. Even though those like me are especially required to have a trine.’

‘What is a trine?’ Innocence asks. His weight is leaning on Tenacity, and Tenacity wraps an arm around him. It is good. Real. ‘I’ve heard of this before, but…’

‘A trine cannot be explained to the outsiders,’ Roy says—his mouth twists. ‘So it goes, and so it is. Your closest significant others, your first line of defence, your everything. There are many different metaphors for different trines, even for a single trine. A body, a mind, and a heart? A child, a youth, an adult? Strength, intellect, kindness? The creator, the preserver, the destroyer… Et cetera.’

‘What did you mean by “those like me”?’

Roy’s eyes flick to them, ethereal. ‘I am—was—one of those who are the reason why the knight-cenobites are called “psychos”.’

This explains a bit more also: the “talking” with the systems, the copy crossing the plains and vanishing… ‘You were a Cybermancer,’ Tenacity notes.

Roy nods, though he appears to be away in his thoughts.

‘Roy, how did we end up here?’

‘Tenacity wanted to be here, so he is. We wanted to be with him, so we are.’ His gaze flicks from Tenacity to Innocence to Temperance. ‘We should return to them. I think it was urgent. The Streumonics there need help. But we might have scared them now. It might prove difficult to find them.’

Tenacity knows it’s his fault that they must be scared. They were asking for his help, went to great lengths to get his attention—and he roared at them. Bad dog.

**Good dog.**

_‘Yes, you are good.’_

**You are, too, Tenacity.** Temperance licks his hand.

Roy strokes a spike again. ‘And I don’t know where to find them. I could try to look for clusters of psi-activity…’ He frowns, and just that alone tells Tenacity a lot about Roy’s opinion on it.

He has already forced Roy to use his abilities so many times, and it doesn’t look like Roy enjoys it. He didn’t leave the E.Y.E. on a whim, did he?

‘If it was created for comfort,’ Innocence says slowly, as though not to scare the thought away, ‘wouldn’t they go further than just the dome? A house? A _home_?’

He thinks about the house where the governor is waiting for her wife. ‘Yes, kitten, I think it makes sense.’

Roy frowns. ‘Possible, but that dome is not precisely “Enki”. And if it is being reconstructed from emotionally-loaded memories…’

They are back at square one. For how long can they wander there? And how might their presence affect the surroundings? However… ‘Ranny, you have the map of the dome and the list of those who disappeared from the governor’s escort? Add also native Ganymedians who disappeared recently, and those who died from suicide. Find their houses, scour public info on their associations: schools, clubs, hobbies—favourite activities. Everything that can have a positive impact. Put those places on the map and eliminate everything else while…’ He rubs his brow. ‘While trying to maintain the general principle of planning in “Enki”. Can you do that?’

**Yes. But it would take time.**

‘Take as long as you need,’ Roy says, patting Temperance’s side. ‘The truck is connected to that space now, so time is flexible.’

‘Like in a dream?’ Innocence notes.

Roy frowns. ‘You know… This might be very accurate. We just need to find the dreamers.’

Tenacity sweeps his hair. ‘If time is flexible, then I suggest we take the opportunity to rest while Temperance works. And I need to… I need to apologise.’ He looks at Innocence. ‘I’m sorry for my outburst. I’m sorry for shouting at you, Innocence.’ His throat is tight—not because it’s difficult, but because shame is choking him. ‘I was scared and confused, but it doesn’t excuse my shitty behaviour. I will try to control my temper better in the future—and thank you for stopping me. With the bottle, I mean.’ His face burns, and he can sense Temperance’s disapproval over that slip—but with it, pride at his admission.

‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ Innocence murmurs. ‘I saw how it breaks families, reduces good people to wreck and makes terrible actions even worse. You are better than that.’

They are so heavy, these words. Innocence certainly understands what Tenacity are—and yet… And yet says such things, and believes them. Believes in Tenacity. Places this burden of trust and faith on him—and Tenacity will be the last bastard if he doesn’t try his best to be worthy of this trust.

‘I’ll try to be,’ he promises with solemnity. He has to. The thought of disappointing Innocence is worse than any hangover—and he’s a violent creature, and now that they know that he’s of the Metastreum also, it cannot be predicted what he might do in the drink. He doesn’t want to scare or hurt Innocence. He’d rather shoot himself.

A bastard as he is, he wants to be better.

He catches Roy nodding, then Roy turns to leave, and Tenacity calls: ‘Majesty, I need to apologise to you also. What I said… Those days before, about you being my tool, about… other things. I should have found a different way to defend you. It was inappropriate of me.’

Roy looks away. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘I don’t want to add to the insults hurled at you so often. I want to punch everyone who calls you crazy.’

‘I can protect myself.’

‘I know. But I still want to help. If you allow me.’

Roy’s gaze lingers on him. Though Roy doesn’t maintain eye contact well, when he does, his gaze can be intense and unnerving. Tenacity hopes his own sincerity can be seen—and he is ready to prove it over and over. For as long as they stay together.

He suddenly realises that Roy’s unblinking gaze reminds him of cats. And Tenacity himself has mostly dealt with dogs. He worries he might have been reading Roy wrong.

_‘Ranny, could you fetch some materials, guides, advice on dealing with cats and on their body language?_

**I can.**

Roy’s mouth twitches, and he tilts his head.

**Also, I must remind you that he can pick on our conversations.**

Tenacity’s whole neck is burning. It’s not shame—though he doesn’t know what it is, exactly.

‘We should rest now, as you suggested,’ Roy says as though nothing has happened. ‘I will sit with Temperance and go through the citizen files with him. And you two try to take a nap.’


	10. The Last Dream (?)

The Wolf was no longer running. On tired, bleeding feet, he was trudging forward as patches of grass turned to sand, then to rocks, then moss and lichen, then grass again. The gaping hole in his chest was overflowing with blood and it dripped onto the ground, and he didn’t know how much of it he had left before he would collapse.

He was at peace, however. He felt the close dawn. He was walking toward the gentle light of it, and his surroundings were coming clearer into view. Towering in the distance, were dark shapes—perhaps mountains or maybe ancient trees. He felt hillocks around and a near presence of the river, its song familiar on the edge of his hearing.

He had decided that if he found some other beast, he would lay at their feet and be their sustenance. There were worse ends, and he would give someone life. If he didn’t meet anyone, he would walk into the dawn until the rising sun burnt him into ashes.

Perhaps he wasn’t a man. Perhaps he had been, but no more. Who was the dream and who was the dreamer? It didn’t seem to matter anymore.

The light touched his face, and he closed his eyes, turning to it, the warmth gentle. Soon, it would turn deadly—but for now, he could enjoy it.

And yet, it wasn’t turning warmer, it caressed his face like a lover’s touch, skimming in the morning when the world is full of promise.

He opened his eyes—and saw them.

One was a great creature, though as the Wolf looked, the creature changed: taller than the cliffs one moment, only the size of the Wolf next; a human with flames in hands, a storm with lightnings dancing within, a dragon with gleaming scales, a stag with a crown of antlers—and more, shapes and forms that only skimmed the Wolf’s perception.

‘It was you,’ the Wolf breathed out. ‘All this time.’

The creature nodded—one head, two heads, three, four, many. Cliffs rose around and turned into great trees, a river fell down the creature’s shoulders and scattered in dancing lights. Fog flowed from the creature’s mouths like a song, fire skimmed the creature’s skin. ‘All this time,’ the creature said in four thousand voices.

Then another figure, obscured until now by the creature, walked out of the creature’s shadow. Much smaller, seemingly fragile—that one was the source of warmth and living light, not of dawn, but something else.

The Wolf went to that smaller figure.

‘Do you know who is a wolf and a man?’

He lowered his head. ‘A hound.’

‘You have given us your claws, your skin, your fangs, your heart. And we will give you a name. You are ours now, Hound.’

Hound said: ‘Yes. Yours.’

A hand touched his head, and he sighed, and he was home.


	11. Chapter 11

Tenacity wakes up. He remembers it—not the concrete sequence of events, but rather like the memories of his Streumonic life: the sharp details. The warmth of light on his face that never turned into burning, because there was an unspoken promise; a hand on his head, owning him because he wanted it to. The cool taste of water on his lips. The smell of growing things. The salt of earth.

He opens his eyes and looks at Roy looking at him: the blue of Martian sunrise, the gold of the sand, of the sun. Tenacity reaches out.

Roy draws back. ‘You don’t need me,’ he says quietly. ‘You don’t want me to…’

Tenacity needs them both—and can’t have either. _They_ don’t need him. The dreams are not a prophecy, but a manifestation of his desire, unrequited, unnecessary. Unwanted. Not a wolf, but a dog indeed: cannot be without a master, without a hand to lick.

‘Tenacity. Your despair is exacerbated in this place. You should try to resist it.’

He sits up and runs a hand through his hair. Should have cut it long ago. ‘Yeah. I’m fine. Do we have a map?’

‘Almost.’

‘Good. Okay.’

He gets up, pulls on his jacket. He decides to keep it over the suit. He wonders whether he should wear the suit at all: he’s a Streumonic creature. He’s not alive.

_Fight it._

He finds Innocence in the kitchen, picking at the stew with a fork while blinking blearily at a small three-dimensional model of ‘Enki’ being constructed in the air.

Tenacity doesn’t feel rested—only feels that he did sleep. He picks some jerky from a cupboard. ‘Had a nap?’

Innocence nods. ‘I can’t tell whether it lasted half hour or half a day.’

He spots the journal by Innocence’s side, open on a page that shows a partly-constructed model of ‘Enki’, captured in pencil strokes. He certainly should make Innocence a pencil case. At least as a parting gift.

The model flickers, pieces scatter for a second, then gather like Temperance’s segments together, frozen in the air.

**Mapping done.**

‘What do you think is the most probable place where we could find the general?’ Roy asks. He is clad in the lighter suit still. It is most likely insufficient for him, after the perfection of the knight armour.

‘The general and the governor’s home, as we thought,’ Tenacity says, focusing on the model. ‘Considering that the governor is waiting there. Could it be possible that her thoughts, her emotions and grief might be influencing this… dreamscape also? Despite the distance.’

‘Distance is as different here as time. It is possible.’

‘I don’t think we should go right there,’ Innocence notes. ‘If it is a place where the people are, and the Streumonic creatures are guarding them, they might be startled and turn hostile. We should approach from some distance, let them see us and know we mean no harm.’

‘Temperance, give me a point an hour away from the governor’s house,’ Roy says.

**Done.**

Tenacity hefts his crossrifle, Innocence checks his weapon. Temperance flares segments.

‘Ranny, assume disguise, just in case.’

When it is done also, Roy holds out his hands. ‘I’ll guide us to our starting point.’

Tenacity exchanges glances with Innocence. He wonders what Innocence is thinking about. What will they encounter there? And if they find the general, what will become of this dreamscape?..

They grip Roy’s hands, and he pulls them in.

***

Temperance and Roy take point. Tenacity has to suppress the urge to change places, to become the one who would be the first to meet the danger. His own desires, dreams don’t matter. Both Roy and Temperance have no problems navigating this labyrinth. Roy seems to be cloaked again, invisible to the Metastreum, so he is more likely to notice them before they notice the rest of the party. Temperance is probably invisible also, having no psychic activity like organics. But then, Tenacity never had the chance to check it, avoiding encounters with the Metastreum after Futility’s death… Was he protecting his true nature this way? Denying it?

How can they be so calm about it? Aren’t they worried that he might turn on them any moment, tear them apart? Streumonic creatures are all emotions, aren’t they? Instincts. He wonders what kind of emotion, what kind of instinct, a suppressed desire or a dream might have spurred his own appearance. Hunting? Protecting?

The idea of being forcibly shaped by someone else’s emotions is as unappealing when applied to himself as it is when applied to others. Doesn’t he have his own free will? Or is he only a reaction? Many among the Noctians hold it that every being, every event don’t just happen—they happen because multitudes of reasons converge in a particular place and time, in a particular way, and so nobody is ‘free’ in the sense of being somewhere by chance, in the sense of being disconnected from anything and everything. But that feels different from being entirely a product of someone’s curbed desires.

The thought is unwelcome. He glances at Innocence, at Roy, Temperance. Aren’t they, too, like this? Innocence: the embodiment of his parents’ hopes, the weapon of his country, and now, in this whole mess by Tenacity’s insistence. Roy: trained spirits know how, and certainly pushed where he didn’t want to go, with abilities he doesn’t want to use, probably doesn’t want to possess. Temperance: literally created for whatever purpose his owner would desire, and then discarded.

Tenacity arrives to the conclusion that perhaps it doesn’t really matter that he’s a Streumonic creature. He is Tenacity, and they accept him like this. This revelation is a little anti-climactic. Maybe it is like it should be with _his_ people. The environment to explore himself in safety, unhurriedly. Knowing that he has all the time in the world, and they will wait for his conclusions and will listen to whatever he comes up with.

Innocence adjusts his hold on the rifle. They probably shouldn’t have dragged him into this. Tenacity doesn’t want to force Innocence to shoot ever again. But as Roy noted, Innocence is an adult, and he can make decisions for himself. If he chooses to take up arms again, to help, to defend, who is Tenacity to stop him?..

Hairs rise on the nape of his neck and his lips pull away from his teeth before he can identify what’s happening.

‘You are real!’

He turns around, his rifle pressed to the pauldron on his right shoulder. He is positioned between Roy and Innocence, and the possible danger.

The group, three people, is coming to them at a trot. They look ragged: clothes worn and mismatched over suits, rebreathers dusty; they carry rifles of various configurations, well-tended but in need of an upgrade. The one that steps forward lift their hands. The face, barely seen between a bushy, unkempt beard and dark brows, is awash with relief. ‘Finally! People and not those Streumonic bastards. You must be lost here also? We—’

Tenacity identifies what has made him so hostile, and immediately reaches to Temperance. _‘Ranny, tell Roy we need to get out of here, now!’_

**He says, make a step backwards.**

Tenacity does—and he is in a different place in a heartbeat, without transition. It is a courtyard—and beyond that, he doesn’t see, doesn’t feel. He lowers the rifle, growls, needing to dislodge the sound out of his throat—and Innocence’s hands are on him, cupping his cheeks, running into his hair, pulling his head down. Innocence’s face is twisted in concern. ‘Are you all right, Tenacity?’

Does he look so terrible?

He leans into Innocence’s touch shamelessly, taking him in, and Roy, hovering behind, and Temperance—his. Safe, for now.

‘Yeah. Yeah.’ He finds he can breathe again. He has to restrain himself and not lick Innocence’s palm, even though it’s covered with the suit glove.

‘What has happened, Old Hound?’ Roy’s voice is coloured with concern also.

‘Those people reek of that explosive,’ he says. It is a strange smell that he can’t name—but he _knows_ it.

‘I don’t think they are rebels,’ Innocence says, dropping his hand from Tenacity’s cheek. ‘Or if they are, they have proper military training, judging by the way they hold their rifles and the state of their rifles, the— What?’ Red colours his cheeks.

‘Well spotted,’ Roy nods.

Tenacity closes his eyes briefly. ‘Ranny, did you catch their faces? Run them through the military databases. Through the Underworks also.’

**Searching.** Temperance goes utterly still, dedicating his processing power to the task.

Tenacity looks around. The courtyard is framed by a half-circle of squat buildings with no indication to their purpose, though he assumes it’s a living block. In the middle of the courtyard stands a tall tree, its canopy providing a nice shade over a circle of benches underneath. Tenacity’s gaze lingers on the green leaves. The light falls from above, illuminating the greenery into emerald. He’s still a Martian at heart, it seems, if such a thing would hold him fascinated, despite years of travels.

He has no doubt Roy has taken them far away from those ‘rebels’ and he has no doubt Roy can get them out of here in a snap. He wonders whether they’d be lost without Roy somehow navigating this non-place and holding them together. He needs to let Roy know that his presence is appreciated. Perhaps later, though he is aware that ‘later’ might never come.

For now, he’s scanning the silent lifeless surroundings. His gaze stumbles over Innocence peering into middle distance, hand gripping the rifle—although the finger away from the trigger. The army has beaten certain reflexes into Innocence, and they will be hard to get rid of, if ever. Tenacity wishes he could help. He wonders whether his own experience was even real, whether it’s even useful. Some of his coping mechanisms are certainly unhealthy, real or not.

‘Innocence,’ he calls quietly. He can do this, at least: call back, over and over, be the shield, lend his heat to protect from cold darkness. If Innocence wants it.

Innocence’s gaze flicks to him without comprehension—then it brightens, focuses, and Innocence smiles apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I was somewhere else. This… brings back memories.’

‘You could return to the truck,’ Roy says, the full force of his gaze on them both. ‘Though I can’t say what might come out of this.’

‘Thank you, but,’ Innocence shakes his head, and his hold on the rifle tightens, ‘I’m not leaving you three here. We are in this together.’

Roy makes a move as though to say something—but Temperance lifts his head.

**Faces don’t match—but other markers do: scent, aug profile and others. They are of the Spec Ops of Aurora, a unit founded by general Grant at the onset of the war. All three are listed as active duty.**

‘Fuck,’ Tenacity breathes out. He certainly would like to clamp his fangs on someone’s throat. ‘So either they’ve gone rogue…’

‘Or it’s an operation sanctioned, and funded, by General Grant. Figures.’ Roy frowns. ‘I wonder if his dear pal Dowser knows about it.’

‘These people—whether under the general’s command or not,’ Innocence muses aloud, ‘presumably attack the governor, abduct several people, set experimental, dangerous explosives to cover their tracks—and now they are lost here?’

‘They looked very haggard,’ Roy murmurs.

‘And quite desperate,’ Tenacity adds. ‘As much as I could sense under the reek of that explosive. I think they have some of it still and might use it.’

‘But this is a psychic place,’ Roy notes. ‘It might detonate any moment. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten rid of it.’

‘What about the abducted people?’ Innocence asks.

‘We have them,’ another voice replies.

Tenacity knows the figure wasn’t here a moment ago. The Cynicle is wearing bright white.

‘Brother Wolf,’ they say, their voice melodious. They don’t reach out to him, staying as motionless as the landscape. ‘You have returned. You must help us, Brother Wolf.’

‘I prefer “Hound”,’ he says, not exactly meaning it to be heard—but the Cynicle nods.

‘Yes, Brother Hound. We must help them. We don’t know how to wake them and bring them back. We are growing weaker, and their dream weakens also.’

Roy is looking at the Cynicle intently, and the lack of reaction is all the stranger that Tenacity knows just how _physical_ Roy’s gaze can be. ‘Ask them how many people there are,’ Roy says.

Tenacity licks his lips. The Cynicle smells of nothing at all—and yet that nothingness is what’s familiar. ‘How many people do you have? The dreamers, I mean.’

‘Those from the tall places, those from the hard places, those from the moving places…’ the Cynicle says in a sing-songy voice, and fuck if Tenacity understands but judging by Roy’s ever-deepening frown, he does.

‘All disappearances, from the facilities and domes, and the governor’s people also,’ Roy murmurs. ‘They’ve been helping those people. Hiding them here. From what?’

‘Who are you hiding them from?’ Innocence asks of the Cynicle, his face, his tone gentle, as though talking with someone traumatised.

‘The blue ones, the cold ones,’ the Cynicle replies.

The metallic scent thickens, and Tenacity turns to Roy—

‘They are stuck here, just like everyone else,’ a familiar voice says.

Tenacity turns around, jumps in front of Innocence—but the taller knight is on Roy, a great staff moving so fast it’s a silver flash. Roy is even faster, impossibly: he was standing here—and now he’s there, on the other side of the tree.

The knight isn’t deterred, jumping on a bench in one move that elegantly breaks laws of physics, then runs over the bent back, footwork faster than possible for a human. The staff flashes again—and again Roy dances away.

‘Where is your staff, brother?’ the knight demands, swinging once more, his weapon a silver arc.

‘In your backsi—’ The rest is drowned by a crash into the bole of the tree. It explodes into a cloud of splinters—and they hover in the air, then compress back into a tree, as though a vid run backward.

‘Weird. Didn’t do that before,’ notes another voice.

Tenacity’s rifle is already pointing at the other knight.

The scene freezes like those splinters—then the older knight lifts his hands, and the staff collapses into a baton as he jumps off the bench, light on his feet, as though not wearing piles of armour. Roy doesn’t drop his stance, doesn’t stop glaring. Ready to dance away again.

Tenacity can feel that Temperance hasn’t moved from Innocence.

‘You _are_ one of us,’ the older knight—Sean, Tenacity recalls his name,—says.

Roy glowers. ‘I am not. Not anymore.’

The older knight takes off his helmet one-handed, all motions deliberately slow, presses his hair back. The slowness is a shock after the fast-paced dance that has happened in a blink just moments ago. ‘Please, tell your hound to stop growling at my student.’

Tenacity wonders which of the hounds the knight means. ‘I can decide for myself, you know,’ he grumbles, lowering the rifle.

‘Death is rather messy here,’ the knight notes. ‘I’d rather not go through it again and waste time. Meaningless as time is, we’ve spent a significant length of it in this place, and now you are trapped here, too.’

‘Are you looking for the dreamers?’ Innocence asks. He has lowered his rifle also, but his hands hold it firmly.

Tenacity doubts Innocence would be fast enough to shoot someone who moves so swiftly. He hopes he will be fast enough to protect Innocence.

‘The dreamers?’ the younger knight asks. He has removed his helmet also and he’s wearing a frown as deep as Roy’s. ‘You mean, the people rescued by the Streumonics?’

‘We still don’t know why they were taken here, Zachariah,’ Sean admonishes. He has a mentorial and yet cordial tone when he addresses his junior.

‘Why don’t you just ask?’ Roy suggests. His hands are balled into fists, and his eyes don’t leave Sean.

‘It’s not that easy, arsehole,’ Zachariah surges forward, just as fighty.

They look strangely alike despite the obvious differences: one rogue, another of the Order, one very young if looks and manner don’t deceive, another older—yet almost identical frowns, and a blaze in their eyes. The metallic taste thickens, and air shimmers around them.

‘Zach,’ Sean calls quietly. It is more tender, more intimate than before—just for his partner.

Zachariah huffs, and steps back to his mentor.

‘We were investigating the suicides on Ganymede and possible Streumonic activity,’ Sean says louder in his more official tone. ‘As you well know, Mr Williams. The course of it has led us here where—’

All three—two knights and one rogue—perk up, like cats hearing a suspicious sound—and Roy yells: ‘Get down!’

It happens so fast: a shot thumps in the tree trunk where Roy stood a moment ago; Temperance expands to his full size and knocks Innocence off his feet. Tenacity throws himself to the ground a moment later.

Innocence shouts, ‘Can’t see it!’

‘I can!’ Roy replies. ‘Which one is it, Sean?’

‘Aiming at you, not us!’

‘Fuck!’

Tenacity jumps to his feet, hauls Innocence up, and runs, zigzagging, to the nearest portico.

‘Dragon’s breath!’ Sean shouts, dashing to the opposite side.

‘No! I don’t take lives.’ Roy leaps, and glass breaks as he rolls into a building, then his voice rises even further: ‘Sadalsuud! We have no quarrels!’

‘We don’t, kindred!’ flies a metallised voice with a steely din of laughter. ‘But your death would make me Divine!’

‘I would destroy everything! You don’t know what you’re doing!’ Roy appears suddenly in the courtyard, throws his arms wide. ‘Hold on tight, all of you!’

They rush to him and grab his hands.

The sudden change in scenery makes Tenacity’s head spin, and he barely catches Innocence, who moans softly and clutches his head.

‘Sorry,’ Roy murmurs. His chest is heaving. He leans forward and cards his fingers through his hair. Probably looking for glass shards. ‘It’d take it time to find us, if we stay low for now.’ He strides across the… It looks like a flat, although more like it’s sprung from an ad than an actual living place, devoid of personal possessions, of signs of being occupied.

Roy reaches a window, and it becomes clear as he approaches. Then he leans back, and it fogs again. Sean is tracking Roy’s movements with narrowed eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

Tenacity tries his voice several times, it feels as though those tree splinters have scratched his throat, then he croaks: ‘What the fuck was that?’

‘Sadalsuud,’ Roy replies quickly, as though it explains everything. Then he glances at them, the frown deep. ‘A knight, kindred to them,’ he nods at Sean and Zachariah. ‘It is a hunter.’

‘And what does it hunt?’ Innocence asks, eyes huge. He’s trembling slightly.

Roy looks away, and instead of him, Zachariah speaks: ‘Rogue Jians, mostly.’

Fuck. ‘Majesty, has it come to hunt you specifically?’

Roy’s shoulders are tense, his whole body looks like he’s ready to jump into another triangle. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I doubt it,’ Sean says. ‘It has been here for long. It knows the layout of this place and it’s been hunting those raiders, or whoever they might be, for sport. It doesn’t care about the… dreamers, and I don’t think it has even seen them. The Metastreumonics guard them well. It must have recognised who you are.’ He steps forward, cold blue eyes trained on Roy. ‘And _who_ are you?’

‘Roy.’

‘_What_ are you? House Scorpio?’

Roy lowers his eyes, then glances briefly at Sean. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not of the Order anymore.’

Their gazes clash, and maybe Tenacity imagines it, but sparks run over their bodies.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ Innocence says.

Sean levels his gaze at him.

Innocence presses his lips together, balls his fists—like when he confronted Tenacity. He steps to the knights and Roy. Tenacity can taste the sharp scent of his fear, and sees how it runs through his body—so fragile in the presence of these titans, breakable, not on its own but merely through comparison. And yet Innocence steps forward, and doesn’t back down.

‘Whatever your secrets, we don’t have time for them now,’ Innocence says, through the trembling of his voice. He swallows, throat clicking. ‘We need to get people out of here, and we need to protect the dreamers from those insurgents.’

Sean’s softens into something more human, not titanian. ‘Yes. You are right, and I apologise. You are right more than you might think: the insurgents, even Sadalsuud, are influencing this place. And it is influenced from the outside, too, by despair of the loved ones out there. Soon, it will turn into a place of nightmares.’

‘What about the Streumonic creatures here?’ Innocence asks.

Sean raises his brows, glances to Zach, and his face softens again. ‘They will lose themselves, most likely, succumbing to those influences. They are… softer than us.’

‘Why didn’t you find the dreamers?’

‘We had an idea,’ Zachariah says. ‘You, too, are looking for the governor’s house, no? We even caught a glimpse of it, but the layout changes, and we couldn’t locate the other dreamers. They are hidden. And we…’ He trails off, glancing at his mentor.

‘We— _I _have the memories of destroying their kin,’ Sean says. ‘The Streumonic creatures don’t trust us, or any humans.’ Tenacity finds himself scrutinised by the cold eyes. ‘But they seem to trust _you_.’

He suppresses the urge to growl. The knights are a potential threat—and he hasn’t forgotten about Sean attacking Roy—but for now they are not hostile. He can always attack later. ‘And what of it?’

‘They might let you get close to the dreamers.’

‘What will you do then?’ he demands.

Zachariah raises his hands. ‘Look, we are not digging for a confrontation with you. We want to get people out of here and convince the Streumonics to stop with their “help”.’

‘They are not doing anything wrong!’ Innocence exclaims.

‘They don’t know what exactly they are doing and what consequences it has for humans,’ Sean says archly. What a prick.

Tenacity wonders whether Roy would have been like this, had he not left the Order. Whether Roy _used_ to be like this.

‘We’d have to take the insurgents out of here also,’ Roy says. ‘Their agenda aside, they don’t deserve to stay trapped here when this place collapses. And Sadalsuud… It may deserve that, but it’s not for me or any of us to decide. There is a problem, however—among many: the insurgents have a…’ He frowns, and turns to Tenacity with a loss in his eyes.

Tenacity doesn’t want to divulge everything to the two knights—but it seems in this case they don’t have a choice.

‘It is an explosive,’ he says. ‘Made from Streumonic tissue that…’ He trails off, seeing the hardening lines of Sean’s mouth. He guesses they know what he’s talking about.

Zachariah clicks his tongue. ‘Someone is making that shit again. Fuck.’

That small curse suddenly makes them look a lot more… human, less the unbeatable mystical half-machines the propaganda paints them as. Tenacity wonders whether it is deliberate, that curse.

‘In the eyes of the Secreta,’ Sean says grimly, ‘it is a capital offence, and no connections can protect them from prosecution. If we can get to them, if you say the truth about it and can prove their possession of it, I will destroy them. I will go up the chain connecting them to their masters, and destroy everyone on the way. And we will not,’ his gaze turns to Roy, softening around the edges, ‘tell of you.’

Roy crosses his arms on his chest. ‘I don’t need such bones from you.’

‘It is not a bone,’ Sean says. ‘Whatever happened to you—’

‘Is not your business,’ Roy growls, shoulders squared. His eyes glow, reflexive like a cat’s—and it is not just a trick of light. His right shoulder is slightly behind the left; he is ready to throw a punch. ‘I am perfectly capable of stopping you or anyone else the Orders throw at me, even the entire Orders, all on my own.’

‘You might be, but—’

‘Stop it!’ Innocence exclaims.

They startle and look at him.

He stiffens, strides closer to the two titans. ‘We should avoid fighting among ourselves, because it is hurting the Streumonic creatures, and they _don’t_ deserve that!’

‘They’ve created this place themselves,’ Sean says.

Innocence throws his hands in the air. ‘To help!’ He drops his hands, balling them into fists, plants himself firmly, as though bracing himself against a storm. ‘The UNM Declaration was amended specifically to rid of all limitations in language that applied it only to humans. So, I believe the Samaritan Rule applies to the Streumonic creatures also. They didn’t have to help—and yet they did, at the threat to their own existence, in a way they understood to be the best, and now they are risking their autonomy for it. They’ve sought our help, and you… You are knights and I’m nothing, but I won’t let you hurt them.’

His words are followed by ringing silence. Tenacity couldn’t be more proud.

Zachariah blinks, then looks at his mentor. ‘Master, I believe you’ve just been called a damn bag of dicks.’

Sean’s face becomes even stonier—then he snorts a laugh. ‘Yes, I believe I have.’

Innocence’s face is suffused with red.

‘I’d like to know your name, young man,’ Sean says.

Innocence tilts his chin up. ‘Innocence Smith.’

Sean nods, very serious. ‘Thank you for trusting me with your name, Innocence Smith. And thank you for reminding me of my convictions. I tend to be carried away in my attempts to understand other people while simultaneously closing myself off to them—’

‘No shit,’ the other knight mutters.

‘—as Zachariah is well aware,’ Sean finishes, a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth.

‘Does this mean you will stop pressing me for answers?’ Roy asks, eyes still wary.

Sean inclines his head. ‘I will. Unless you deem me worthy of your trust and decide that you want to tell me more about yourself.’

What a bag of dicks, indeed. But, Tenacity realises, Sean is like this on his own. Oh, he certainly can be a regal smug just to annoy someone, or maybe to protect his and himself—but right now, it doesn’t smell like a game. Sean is regal like a prince—but it is who he is. And he tries to soften the impression.

Must be a hard life, forcing oneself to fight and override the self-preservation instinct in order to connect with others. It must be a lonely life.

It seems Sean and Roy are more alike than they think. But Sean has Zachariah. And Roy…

Tenacity decides to break the tension. ‘All right, peacemakers. What is our strategy now?’

‘Isn’t it _your_ investigation, old man?’ Zach chimes, grinning.

Tenacity growls. ‘I am not that old, you git, though extremely handsome.’

The younger knight’s grin widens. Tenacity certainly likes him.

‘I might have taken it up,’ he continues, and looks between Innocence and Roy, ‘but these are my partners, so we decide together.’ At Temperance’s chitter, he adds, ‘And you are my partner also, Ranny.’ He lifts his eyes and catches Sean looking at him with amusement—but then the older knight schools his face into a neutral expression.

‘We just have to find the dreamers, and figure out how to wake them up,’ Zach spreads his arms, but his easy tone doesn’t fool Tenacity, just like his partner’s archly manner doesn’t anymore.

‘They want our help,’ Innocence repeats. ‘Mine and Tenacity’s, and they don’t see Roy—’ Sean raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything. ‘—but they might think you two are holding us hostage or that we betrayed them and are leading you to them.’

‘I hope they don’t think so,’ Sean says. ‘We have avoided fights with the Streumonic creatures here so far.’ He pauses, then glances at Roy. ‘We, too, try to preserve life.’

Tenacity snorts—more from surprise. ‘Knights who don’t kill? I’m in exceptional company.’

Sean frowns, eyes going colder (he might be in control of his face, but his eyes betray a lot)—when Zach leans forward. ‘A hound that walks on two legs and shoots a weird-arse rifle? We are in exceptional company.’

Tenacity flips him off without heat.

Sean rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks. He must be used to his partner’s antics.

‘Sadalsuud will focus on me to the exclusion of everyone else,’ Roy says, the mood sobering. ‘I will stay and…’

‘No,’ Tenacity says. He tries not to growl. ‘We are not leaving you one on one with it.’

‘I can handle it.’

‘You can, brother,’ Sean says, surprising Tenacity. ‘But your struggle would attract attention from the other party, and we don’t need it. Also we need your transmigration gates. Your will is strong.’

Roy tilts his head to the right shoulder. ‘Yours isn’t?’

‘It is—but I am incapable of taking strangers with me. And of… using it benevolently.’

‘Don’t worry, brother,’ Zach says—and produces an almost comically-oversized rifle. ‘I will be covering our tracks. Outsniping a sniper isn’t new to me.’

Tenacity estimates that this rifle is the length all of Zach’s back—maybe even more when unfolded. It looks unwieldy, though its matted surfaces make it clear it is meant for stealth action.

Roy eyes the rifle with a frown. ‘Since when does Ignis train Lightnings?’

Zach grins. ‘I’m not a Lightning. I’m a Tracker—his,’ he tilts his chin at Sean, ‘future pet assassin. Though without the assassination part. Tranq and electro charges only. Enough to knock out even Sadalsuud.’

Innocence shakes his head. ‘Lethal or otherwise, we should avoid violence as much as we can.’

Tenacity takes it in. They are lost, with one sniper-trained knight and… ‘How many of the insurgents are there?’

‘We counted two dozen.’

Fuck. And two dozens of probably fanatical adherents of a self-proclaimed savour of the nation—and who knows how many dreamers and Streumonic creatures to protect. This is going to be fun.

‘Okay,’ he says at last. ‘Ranny and I shall take point. How far are we from the governor’s home?’

‘Fifty-four minutes,’ Roy replies.

‘Good. Then, Innocence, I need you close to us. You will be covering me and Ranny, and will help with the Streumonic creatures when we meet them. Next… Sean, can you shoot?’

‘I have a sidearm.’

And then Tenacity tries very hard not to show his surprise as the ‘sidearm’—though judging by the smirk hiding in the corner of Sean’s sardonic mouth, Sean knows exactly the effect.

The ‘sidearm’ is a strange, heavy, blocky revolver. Tenacity has seen this model only once. He assumes the rifle Zach is lugging around is the legendary Hunting Machine, of which maybe only two or three dozens exist, and almost all of them in possession of the E.Y.E., not the least for the reason that a human must be heavily augmented to be able to handle it and its killer recoil. The blocky revolver in Sean’s hands, with a polished but otherwise plain handle, is a 444 Bear Killer, the Hunting Machine’s smaller, but no less deadly cousin. Capable of stopping a fucking tank and, in a few shots, a Deus Ex, if rumours are to be trusted. Capable of tearing arms off of its wielder also.

What the fuck is this pair’s specialisation, taking on whole armies?

Tenacity is also morbidly curious what kind of bullet can be fit into this monstrosity of a revolver and _not_ kill someone through the sheer force of it.

He sweeps his hair back. ‘Okay, then you will be following us. And Roy and Zach in the rear, covering. Criticisms? Suggestions?’

An assortment of headshakes and nods is his answer.

‘All right. Let’s move.’

***

Temperance—in his full form, because there’s no use hiding anymore—is walking steadily ahead, and Tenacity lets their connection flow freely, Temperance’s background processes a steely-tasting hum in the back of his head. Thinking about the past, about all those moments when he smelled things acutely, tasted them, when he felt muscles more powerful and differently arranged than a human’s… He wonders whether it was his nature as a Streumonic creature, or his bond with Temperance. Are they in a symbiotic relationship? Ranny’s whole being providing him with structure, while he, in turn, gives life, makes Temperance truly a sophont. Or are they one being in two bodies?

Most important of all: does it really matter?

Though it is not the time to delve deep into these thoughts. But will there ever be another time? He hasn’t said so many things. And if all this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up—but what if he, too, created all this for their comfort—or for his own comfort? And they are but prisoners here, but he doesn’t know how to let them go, so unless they save themselves, they are going to fade with him. Is being able to let go the ultimate measure of love?

Can it be this loud, terrible, wonderful word? Or is he just an unwilling receptacle for their desires, a mirage conjured by their needs?

Does it really matter?..

As though through a fog, he hears Sean and Roy speaking over the link. ‘Why do you call the hound “Temperance”? Even the hunter uses… “Ranny”, I believe?’

‘No reason.’ Pause. ‘My previous name was that.’

‘Temperance?’

‘It is _not_ my name anymore,’ Roy growls. ‘And it was in a different language. Sessei.’

Sean chuckles. ‘Venerable Sessei.’

‘_Divine_ Sessei.’

Tenacity scans his surroundings, looks up. The flow of light, though not changing the temperature, still makes him want to hide from it. Martians don’t trust the sun.

‘Sean?’ he calls. ‘How are you maintaining the blockade? You don’t have a fleet on orbit.’

‘Not a common fleet, no—but a micro-fleet controlled by our brother. He is on orbit.’

Spirits, it makes sense in a terrible sort of way. Ganymede is a small planet, but still, there would need to be millions, billions of crafts the size of a fingernail and smaller, to cover it. Usually, such fleets are controlled by a whole company of operators, otherwise the cognitive load is too heavy, and only for minutes, maybe couple hours at a time. But knights are not ordinary people, are they?

He imagines it: being left in solitude on orbit, plugged into the control unit for days, as one’s mind shimmers, surrounding a planet like a veil, like grains of sand on Mars. Ready to turn into a storm that would rip even through the strongest armour. It is an art form in and of itself, to know how to fly such storms… Tenacity imagines: reclining back in a constricting chair, clad only in the flexible under-armour, but the unyielding plates rest close by—not defenceless, but vulnerable like… Hair, long ago coppery, now faded from living forever in the hungry mouth of death but never quite being swallowed…

‘It must be very lonely for him,’ Innocence says quietly, voice heavy with sympathy.

‘It is his duty,’ Sean replies just as softly.

‘It is not fair. It being his duty doesn’t make it fair.’

‘Few things are fair. The world isn’t perfect.’

‘We must mend it. Make it better, finish it—_this_ is our duty.’ There is heated conviction also, in Innocence’s voice, the uncertainty often plaguing him gone now.

‘To share in the creation and preservation?’

‘Yes!’

‘What are you, young man?’

Tenacity doesn’t have to glance behind to know that Innocence shrinks, the fire stamped out. ‘I’m nothing.’

Roy starts: ‘Innocence—’

Tenacity throws himself to the nearest wall before the motion registers.

He sees them rounding the alley mouth behind, and his people scatter: Zach makes jumps taller than his own height, getting onto the white roof with ease, and in a moment a shout indicates that Zach has deployed the rifle; Innocence has rolled and ducked to a portal nearby, his rifle scanning the premises and sending scattering shots.

Roy… Tenacity’s heart nearly stops: Roy is in the middle of the alley, heedless of the shots zipping past but not getting to him. Sean rushes to him—but Roy raises his hand. ‘No! We must move from here!’

Innocence breaks into a run. Tenacity follows, throwing his body between Innocence and bullets, and Temperance is right beside, claws clinking on the pavement.

Tenacity feels a rush, as though caught by a storm gale. He glances at himself and catches a golden-blue triangle framing him as he goes. The same glow surrounds Innocence, but Innocence doesn’t stop to look.

Roy and Sean are behind them, Sean sending wide lightning arcs down the alley—but not fast enough to stop another bullet that Tenacity sees—feels—with all his senses.

The world freezes—but doesn’t explode in a fireball of pain.

He looks back—sees Roy stumble, stumble forward, as though the ground has bucked under his feet like a spine of a beast. They catch him—and the scenery is different once more, an enclosed space, but quiet, and Roy is falling apart.

Literally.

The hole in his suit is widening, and discolouration is spreading from it like in a fastened vid, and grey sand starts trickling off of him onto the floor, dissipating in the air. Roy is gasping, fingers clawing at nothing, eyes bloodshot.

Sean falls to his knees, graceless, and produces a metallic syringe the length of his own forearm.

Roy jerks his head, once, and bares his teeth. His mouth is very red and dry. ‘Useless, Sean.’

‘Useless how, you b—’ The rest is lost in silence, as Sean takes in the grey sand flaking off of Roy.

Tenacity’s throat is constricted in fear the likes of which he didn’t know before. Blood can be contained—but how can they contain _this_? He cups his palm, trying to catch the sand, but it falls apart like mist. It flakes not only from the gaping wound, but from Roy’s hand now, his lips, his hair, puffs up into the air with his breaths.

‘You are one of _them_,’ Sean says, eyes huge.

Roy closes his own. He’s trembling, face ashen.

‘One of the cats,’ Sean says.

What the fuck are they…

Sean’s face folds into a determined expression again, and he presses a hand to Roy’s chest, and Roy lets out a moan. Only Innocence’s grip on his hand stops Tenacity from tearing that hand off of Sean.

Sean looks to them. Such fury in his previously cold eyes. ‘You must help him.’

‘What are we supposed to do?’ Innocence asks. His breathing is torn, and tears spill onto his cheeks, but he makes no move to wipe them.

Roy looks pained at the sight of them.

‘Take his hands.’

Tenacity moves to one side of Roy, Innocence to the other. Tenacity is so _grounded_ here, so aware of them: their scents clog his senses, their proximity overrides everything else. He wants to be—with them. Needs them.

They pull Roy’s gloves off, and Tenacity doesn’t allow himself to flinch from the shock of the touch—but reels in his heart from how frail Roy’s hand seems. So dry, and can’t grasp his fingers.

Roy glances between them, eyes discolouring rapidly, then at Sean.

‘They are your frame of reference. Do it. As here…’ Sean urges. _Orders_.

Roy’s face crumples, and his dry lips part. ‘So there.’

Sean nods. ‘You can do it. What you _can’t_ do, is leaving these two.’ Sean looks at them again. ‘Let him use you.’

Anything. They would give him anything. He meets Innocence’s eyes over Roy’s trembling, very fragile body. Then Innocence presses his lips stubbornly together, and nods.

Everything.

Roy closes his eyes, and goes lax, and a sigh escapes his lips that sounds too much like the last exhale.

Then Tenacity feels… something. It is like his connection with Temperance, always there, another consciousness running parallel to his own. But it is very different also. Dimly, he notes Innocence jerking—he’s probably unused to such sensation—and then he _feels_ Innocence, another mind, another presence, another… Astonishment and fear and so much… They grip Roy’s hand, and he replies—or do they reply?

Not like Temperance at _all_. It is something big but restrained so severely, something that is so beautiful, but hidden, like the sound of water on the edge of hearing after a long trail, like the golden-blue glimpse of dusk, like raisins, like…

But it retreats, gently, brushing him apologetically—leaving him with an aching loss—

Then Roy opens his eyes. The greyness is gone as though it was just one of Tenacity’s nightmares—but Roy looks exhausted on a deep level beyond the physical, his lips pale and cheeks sunken. And yet his eyes shine with gratitude as he looks, again, between Tenacity and Innocence.

The gaze lingers—Tenacity studies his face, his eyes, trying to find the traces of death. But it is just Roy. Tenacity doesn’t know what the fuck has just happened, only that Roy is all right now.

‘I thought Jian Houses are named after constellations?’ Tenacity says, needing to hear Roy. Needing to hear anything from him—to measure his voice and know he’s all right now.

Sean gets up, looking as though the only thing keeping him upright is his armour. ‘Categorically-Aberrative Transient Singularity—CATS.’

Tenacity glances at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘An exposition?’ Roy sighs, and his hand slips out of Tenacity’s as he sits up, then gets to his feet, each movement laboured. ‘I guess we do deserve a pause in the plot.’ Roy sighs again, turning his back to them, moving away. Tenacity mourns the loss of his closeness.

‘”As above, so below”. “As here, so there”: it is the principle that gave birth to the Metastreum: feelings, emotions, desires, fears—all psychic activity led to its formation. Not a parallel world—but a part of this one, just invisible most of the time. But it works the other way around also: as there, so here—that’s the reason why one of the first documented contacts was between a serial killer and a Streumonic creature born out of torment of the killer’s victims, of their _potential_ that he snatched away, their desires that were never realised, their dreams… It’s the principle upon which psychic powers operate: you reach from _here_ through _there _to _here_ again. Bypassing limitations of the waking world, like you’d bypass limitations of three dimensions through the fourth.

‘But what if we go further? Operating the waking world through the psychic one requires rigorous, difficult training—and though living beings belong to both worlds—those worlds are one, after all,—they are more used to the waking one, while the Streumonic creatures are more used to the psychic activity and laws—that’s why they talk in riddles and kill without meaning to.

‘What if we go further, indeed. Create someone adept at both, someone who can not only simply reach _there_, but _go_ there and change _here_ in fundamental ways, without limitations of the human psyche as it clings to its own barriers and reasons; someone who knows both, who uses both.’

‘What do you mean, “create”?’

‘Exactly what it says. Jians are mystics, interested in research of the There more than the Culter Dei are. So, the CATS project was born. I… was born. Created on the frame of both human and Streumonic, akin to both and yet like neither. Belonging to neither. There were four of us.’

Sean runs a hand over his helmet resting on his hip. ‘Which one are you?’

Roy glances over his shoulder, smiles without warmth. His eyes are full of fire, and yet there is something pained in them also, in his brows drawn together. ‘Depends. I am the King of the North, the Singer, the Crimson One. The four of us… A dancer, an artist, a singer, a writer. Doomsday weapons on a scale unimaginable. AIs, our entire existence forbidden by the Federal law—our existence is impossible. Living gods…’ He clenches his fists, walks further away. ‘But you can’t contain a god in a physical body, and can’t contain a divine mind in the constraints of mortal concepts. What the underlying theories posited, proved to be possible, with results more than what they hoped for… With one caveat: the loss of “self”. Of the mortal self. Why would a god care about mortal wars? Oh, there is a bit of curiosity to it, but there are also limitations to understanding, because the object of understanding is limited.’ He shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t matter. When one of us used their power in full, they were… lost. The project was scrapped, buried in secrecy lest the Feds find out.’

‘What about you?’ Innocence asks quietly. ‘The other three?’

Roy shrugs. ‘One was disassembled completely—which required more resources than initially thought: our bodies—my body—is not like yours, it is held only by a conscious effort of will and can change shape. Difficult to destroy unless I will it myself. Another settled down with her trine—stripped of most of her powers. That is the official version. The truth… They placed their hopes on me and their powers into me and helped me run away. I am One-and-Three. I can…’ He shakes his head again, the frown deep and eyes full of anguish and anger. ‘I can destroy the universe, rewrite the laws of physics—I can do _anything_. Perhaps my former Order has found out that I am free and powerful and learnt many things they didn’t train me in. But to use all of it would mean destruction of myself as a person. My life—for all lives in existence, my whole personality, everything that I am—for everything else, with unpredictable results, because what would I do if I am no longer myself?’

The air rings in the wake of Roy’s words, and the fire of them as though has compressed the space and time. This place being what it is, perhaps it has. All things seem to be different: the benches behind Roy, a door, a portal as though smaller, the walls lower.

Tenacity has a sudden acute feeling that Roy is _more_. It is one thing to hear about it, even in Roy’s own heated words—and another to feel it. That he is more than this fairly average body, more than his barely-there outward shows of emotions, more than his sometimes elaborately-woven and yet quite sparse words.

More, even, than what was meant to him.

Like Innocence is more. More than his pain and his nightmares, than just a lost young man with no home to return to.

More than what the world assigns to them.

Innocence steps to Roy. Roy holds himself tense, and the space around him is more normal-sized—or perhaps it is that Roy has shrunken. He eyes Innocence warily, an inner battle evident in the subtle shifts of expressions on his face: longing and loneliness and fear. Roy changes his stance, legs bent at the knees slightly. Tenacity doesn’t think Roy is even aware of it—it’s an instinct. To run.

But Innocence approaches carefully, openly. Doesn’t reach out to Roy, though his hands twitch. Innocence is perceptive—a writer, an artist. He has noticed that Roy rarely permits a touch.

‘I think you are brave, Roy,’ Innocence says, a little uncertain as he often is, probing his words, but pushing through anyway. ‘And what was done to you is wrong—but you are not broken. And not one of us would endanger you.’

Tenacity glances at the two knights—just as Sean looks to him, and nods, just slightly.

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Roy says, his voice soft—like when he woke Tenacity from a dream, like when Tenacity cried for the life that was his but not his; like when Innocence found he’d lost his home. ‘I’m afraid _for_ you.’

‘Then let that fear,’ Sean speaks, ‘protect those you care about.’

They look at each other, so different—and yet Tenacity sees the similarities between them also: tall and proud and unashamed of what they are, throwing themselves into the world’s face like a challenge. (And then slinking into the dark where nobody would see how they break, how afraid they really are.)

Sean pulls off a gauntlet from his right hand and holds it out to Roy in a gesture that looks fairly ordinary and yet feels like something significant between them. Tenacity thinks about the charge that passes whenever Roy touches him. Roy looks at the offered hand, then makes a small step back. Sean nods, face not angry, but understanding.

Temperance clicks over the floor and nudges Roy’s shoulder from behind. Roy goes still, then looks around at them, head tilted. ‘I know where the dreamers are. At least the governor. I can take us there right now.’

Tenacity doesn’t feel jealous over his dog forging a connection with Roy—he’s glad for it. He can feel their exchanges like a dream of an echo, even as he longs again to be connected fully to Roy. Maybe one day.

‘Are you certain you should… transmigrate us now?’ Tenacity asks.

Roy glares at him. ‘I’m fine.’ His voice sounds normal but it’s the glare that makes Tenacity inclined to think on the contrary.

‘After using the SG _and_ TG in quick succession?’ Sean echoes Tenacity’s doubts. ‘I think not.’

‘SG? TG?’ Innocence murmurs.

Roy sighs. ‘The Substitution Gate and the Transmigration Gate.’

‘Two of the three most powerful…’ Zach wiggles his fingers in the air. ‘Techniques in any knight’s—or _former_ knight’s—arsenal. In any psychic, actually. Both Orders have only a handful of people who’s mastered even one of them, and not all Heads of the Houses or Chorus Coryphei know those.’

Roy looks away.

Zach grins. ‘Aw, don’t be like this! You’ve not only mastered them—you _reversed_ them.’

‘How so?’ Tenacity asks. He is curious and desperately wants to know more about Roy, though that desire is warring with the need to give Roy space, especially after Roy’s heated confession—but Tenacity also hopes his question would draw Zach’s attention away from Roy.

‘The Substitution Gate,’ Sean replies instead, ‘by means of which he saved your life, Mr. Williams, links the psychic… caster, with a being of their choosing. Links their lives. All three Gates after offensive techniques, however.’

Innocence blanches. ‘If the caster is injured…’

‘The one they’ve chosen to link themself to suffers the wound,’ Sean explains. ‘And usually the nature of a knight’s job means that they are under threat of injuries of devastating extent, and the paired one is unlikely to survive—although there are creative uses for it, too, aside from killing proper. And yet, Roy has, apparently, reversed it.’

‘I can shrug off injuries that would kill them,’ Roy says quietly, shoulders slouched. ‘Better me, than them. Although I didn’t expect that the insurgents would use expanding bullets.’

‘The Transmigration Gate is a portal, right?’ Innocence asks. He still looks queasy, and Tenacity can’t blame him for wanting to change the topic. He drifts closer to Innocence, hopes that his proximity is reassuring. Innocence must have seen all the terrible things people have to or are eager to do to each other on the front lines—and Tenacity has seen it also, but these… These ‘techniques’ are effective, brutal cruelty.

‘Yes. A portal to hell, usually,’ Zach says, tone serious. ‘Flings someone into the nearest star, a black hole, into solid rock—away, forever.’

‘And the third Gate?’ Tenacity asks.

Sean opens his mouth—then glances at Roy, and Roy says, ‘Better not know. Let’s go to the general. I’ll be fine.’

Fine, yeah. Tenacity clamps down on objections. Even though the burst blood vessels in Roy’s eyes are turning normal right as they have been speaking—and isn’t Roy’s entire body a wonder?—everything they have just said about the Gates makes Tenacity uneasy. He sees his worry reflected back at him in Innocence’s eyes.

Tenacity finds that he doesn’t care that Roy wasn’t born from a womb. Or rather, he _cares_, but. It doesn’t bother him. Roy is Roy. It bothers him in a sense that some fucker might come after Roy or say that he’s an abomination and should be wiped out according to the laws of the Federation. How did Innocence put it? The UNM Declaration applies to every being. Roy has a right to life, shelter, dignity and everything else just like everyone else. Tenacity can see, though, that many people would spit on the Declaration, as has been done too many times before. He can see how it is hard for Roy to trust anyone.

He wants Roy to feel safe. Wants him to be happy, have the freedom to live his life as he sees fit, not as someone dictates, and to not have to fight anyone for that freedom every step of the way,

Roy might have been created with a noble purpose in mind—noble, at least, in the heads of his creators—but to force him or coerce him into it through any means is obscene. Whether he thinks like others or not, whether he bleeds blood or sand—he is a person. A living being—even though many would deny it. Well, fuck them.

To exist solely by the mercy of others’ whim is obscene.

‘Are you ready?’ Roy asks, tearing Tenacity out of his reverie.

They nod and voice their assent.

Roy turns his back to them, and Tenacity can only guess that his hands are moving. The air changes.

Before, they rushed through the Gate, but now he can see it properly—a thin triangle outline in the air. It is gold, as though threads of sunlight have been suspended, pulled taut on a frame, and it has a blue fuzz on the edges—but once in a heartbeat it fizzles, like a change in the current, and flicks to crimson of blood and Martian rock. The triangle is making a sound—though not _quite_ a sound, but something like a sensation, like a hum of lips pressed to skin, more a touch than anything else. The scene behind it is the same as without it, and yet it doubles, triples, trembles. Tenacity wonders what it costs Roy and how to help Roy recuperate.

Roy is a wonder.

Tenacity exchanges glances with Innocence. Something has happened between them also, in that moment when Roy forged the three of them into a connected, three-point system. It had been there before that, brewing, budding, but then, it was made acute. They are being pulled closer. He feels as though Innocence can sense what he’s experiencing. That they can sense each other—on a bone-deep level. Is it his being a Streumonic creature? Is it Roy? Does it worry Innocence?

Is it meant to be?

A part of him fears Innocence—and he can’t say whether it comes from himself, from Roy, or from the three-way interaction, Innocence’s fear reflected into him. He fears to break Innocence’s trust. He fears being seen—even as he craves it also. Being seen and exposed and wanted just as he is, not as what he tries to show.

He feels like this particular fear is something the three of them share. He wishes they could explore it—all of it—and talk freely, and maybe Roy would connect them fully again so they didn’t have to look for words.

But it is not the time, and his heart weeps at the fear that they might never have the time at all.

Innocence nods—slightly, only to him, blue eyes huge and tender. He knows, sees, understands.

Roy steps through the triangle—and they follow.

***

Tenacity has a distinct feeling that he’s intruding. In some houses, the heart is the kitchen where the entire family gathers at least once a day and discusses what worries them. In other houses, often more affluent and more solitary, it is the office or a part of the bedroom designed as such: where plans are made, crafts are worked on, thoughts are unloaded into a journal. In yet others, it is the bedroom: a place of vulnerability and comfort, the bed itself a witness to sleepless nights, to days of cold, to sickness and death and love.

Perhaps, for the Ortegas, it is the latter, for they turn up in a bedroom.

Tenacity, over the course of his hunts, has had to intrude into homes, and now he tries not to break the refuge that it is. He tries not to look around—but catches glimpses of the Ortegas’ life nonetheless: a scattering of photos on a creamy chest of drawers, a board with posters and journal cuttings on one wall, a palm-sized yellow bag near the photos, embroidered with blue triangles, that Tenacity knows contains salt…

And yet all these mementos, knickknacks, bits and pieces of a life they are intruding upon have a blurry quality, sharp in details but eluding the senses as a whole when looked at straight.

Like in a dream.

On the bed, lies General Ortega.

Unlike the surroundings, Devotion Ortega looks definitely real—and so much as though asleep that Tenacity tries to quieten his breathing, wills his heart to slow down, lest they disturb her sleep. He wonders what kind of soldier she is: one to sleep through a barrage or one who rises at the merest creak. He thinks it’s the latter.

She is also startlingly young. He’s seen vids of her, photos, but it wasn’t apparent: her actions speak of maturity, of power and will. But now, in her sanctuary, she is… very young.

He remembers standing by the Auroran hero, Dowser Wisdom, long ago, overlooking the massacre of a battlefield, and he heard Wisdom murmur: ‘Why are they so young?’. Watching the soldiers kill and die at his command. And Tenacity wanted to grab the man by the starched collar of his uniform jacket, and spit in his face, and tell him: ‘It’s because _you_ take them so young, you and Abundance.’

But he didn’t do it, and will never have a chance to, probably.

‘Where are the other dreamers?’ Zach murmurs.

‘I think I know,’ Innocence says, stepping forward—then shrinking back. ‘But, maybe not…’

The bedroom is rather crowded with them all here, and Tenacity can sympathise with Zach and Innocence keeping their voices low. His heart aches, though, with the uncertainty in Innocence’s words.

‘Speak, Innocence, please,’ Sean implores gently.

Innocence shakes his head. ‘It’s just a stupid idea, but it wouldn’t… It’s nothing.’

Zach moves so suddenly that Tenacity nearly leaps to him, before he registers that the movement is not a threat to Innocence.

Zach stands before Innocence, his rifle on his back, a frown on his face and fire in his eyes. ‘No, Innocence, listen. People live by stories. Not by the fact, but by how the fact is spoken about. It’s how they process the world, it’s how the universe is made: it needs a witness and it needs a storyteller to tell what they witnessed. The universe needs to be told what it is. And the Metastreum—they are not just emotions, they live by the stories. You heard a tale about the Great Wolf? That first meeting of a mortal with a Streumonic creature documented in our time, the mortal being the serial killer, and it was a story and developed like a story. Nobody is more powerful than a storyteller—tell us! Tell us to the world, Innocence. Tell your stories.’

A moment passes between them in silence—a connection forged in words and without. They are alike, young and blazing, hurt and broken and mending. Stumbling, struggling, aching. Golden in their light. Angry in their hearts—and yet tender in the depths. Maybe there is hope for the world yet, Tenacity thinks, with them.

He wonders how Zach knows that Innocence is a creator—but the Streumonic creatures know, and the knights are not that different from them. The world is reflected back at itself, separated from itself by the invisible thin mirror-glass. It is that knights are aware of the reflection and sometimes can reach beyond the mirror.

Innocence nods, though his eyes are wide with disbelief. He swallows audibly, the throat working within the tight fit of the suit—and Tenacity feels the pressure of the material, tastes acid on his tongue. He wants to wrap his arms around Innocence, but doesn’t want to disrupt his concentration. He can’t carry Innocence’s burden, but he can let him know that there is someone to fall back on.

Innocence steps to the bed. ‘General Ortega. I’m Innocence Smith.’ His voice wavers, but he clenches his fists so tightly the gloves creak. ‘I think that you are the one protecting all those people. I saw you on the Orion’s Shoulder. I… was there. You arranged for a truce. You are known for valuing the lives of your people. I was there. I remember. You are from Shadowlair, aren’t you? I am also, and you want to bring these people home, but you can’t right now, so you are protecting them. We are here to get you all home. We will protect you: all those people and your Streumonic guardians also. I cannot… I cannot prove to you our conviction, except that, the Streumonic creatures reached for us. I give you my word that we will do everything we can to bring you home. But we need to know how many of you are here and where you are. We need information in order to make proper plans of defence. So please… Let us help. I hope you—’ He falls silent abruptly, and turns his head.

Tenacity follows his gaze. The side walls have turned into mirrors—an endless hall of reflections. Except that, on the bed in those reflections lies not General Ortega, but other people, and the longer Tenacity looks, the more differences in each reflection he finds, like in a children’s game.

The dreamers.

‘She trusts you,’ a familiar voice intones. Tenacity isn’t surprised by the appearance of the white-robed Cynicle. ‘Can you help them?’

‘As much as we—’ Innocence’s words are drowned by a moan.

It is not coming from anyone in the bedroom or even in the endless hall—it is coming from the outside, and yet it feels as though the walls themselves are exuding it. As though there are no walls at all. It is a pained moan, a moan one would let out in the throes of a nightmare, unable to wake up.

Tenacity looks at General Ortega, but she is peacefully asleep. He looks at the Cynicle next: even though their pose doesn’t change and their face—what can be seen of it in the shadow of a deep hood—doesn’t change, he can _feel_ their horror.

‘What the—’

‘Don’t go to the windows!’ Roy hisses, while getting there himself in one leap. The panes frost.

‘—fuck,’ Zach finishes.

‘They found us,’ the Cynicle whispers.

Tenacity has the urge to reach to them and touch their shoulder, but he isn’t certain it’s appropriate. ‘How?’

‘Innocence anchors the place,’ Roy throws over his shoulder, looking through the still-frosted window.

Tenacity shoots him a glare, steps to Innocence. Those words wouldn’t help. But then Roy adds: ‘Not your fault, Innocence. We need this anchoring. Don’t apologise.’

Sean is listening, then looks at Roy. ‘It appears they are twisting this place.’

‘Unwittingly,’ Roy says. Then adds, ‘Hopefully.’

Zach hisses. ‘This is so much fucking worse. What about Sadalsuud?’ He looks at his mentor.

Sean shakes his head, his face stern. ‘Its creativity applies only to hunting and killing. You know its powers lie not in psi-forms. Though no doubt it will use the circumstances to its advantage.’ His gaze turns to Roy again. ‘Can you hold them off for a while now?’

Roy shifts, his eyes not meeting anyone. Discomfort, uncertainty wafting off of Roy almost make Tenacity give Sean a glare also—but Sean softens in the way that Tenacity has come to understand the knight reserves for people he doesn’t want to pretend for. ‘If you can’t, if you don’t want to, that’s fine, brother.’

Roy lifts his hands—then drops them. ‘I can. I must. But it won’t be… Try not to panic.’

And everything goes dark.

Tenacity tries very hard to fulfil Roy’s request, but the thing is, his senses can’t compensate. His vision supplied him with the baseline of this place, and everything else sort of followed, though doubtful—and now there is nothing to see—and nothing to _feel_. He can sense the green scent of Innocence, sharp with sweat and worry, and he can sense Innocence’s emotions, and there are the knights and Ranny _and nothing else_.

‘Hold on a moment, I will be your eyes.’ Roy’s voice—not in the air, but right in Tenacity’s head, more real than anything else, right in his bones…

He almost steps away—not in some direction, but _somewhere_—and his fingers are gripped by Innocence’s warm hand, anchoring.

Then a hand—bright-metal in scent, the left one—covers Tenacity’s eyes and dry lips press to his forehead. They burn like ice.

Then, he loses his mind. The whole universe rushes into him, destroying everything; he ceases existing, and yet sees a body frozen somewhere and held, and there are _sounds_, myriads of songs and melodies and tunes and trills that cannot be but _are_, and they are here, all of them, and here are things, and everything is connected, _everything_, from … to …

He opens his eyes—and sinks to his knees, pulling Innocence into his arms. He hears Sean’s low moan and Zach’s gasping, and the trembling of Temperance’s plates, and he tucks his face to Innocence’s neck, and feels Innocence’s hands clawing at his suit on the back, and they try to breathe.

‘I’m sorry,’ Roy’s voice across the barrier of air now, small.

There was something… A figure holding everything in their hands, and _being_ everything, or maybe it’s what his mind tried to make of it, and…

‘Don’t focus on it,’ Roy murmurs. ‘Let it go.’

It fades like a dream from Tenacity’s memory, from everyone’s memory—only their shuddering bodies remember bits of it—an echo of a burn, an imagined taste of fresh water, the beat of a storm.

Tenacity folds himself tighter over Innocence. He realises that this… this thing he can’t remember now, the thing that his mind pushes away to preserve itself—this is what the world is like for Roy all the time.

‘I’m used to it,’ Roy says quietly.

Tenacity leans back, easing his grip on Innocence, though Innocence doesn’t let go. ‘You reading my mind?’

‘It lingers.’

‘Fuck,’ Innocence breathes out near Tenacity’s ear.

This soft exhalation makes things a little better.

‘Brother…’ Sean sounds shaken.

Roy growls. ‘Don’t pity me.’

‘Would rather punch myself instead,’ Sean says.

Innocence eases his hold on Tenacity and gets up, then reaches out. Tenacity grips his hand, and Innocence hauls him up.

They are still in the mirrored bedroom, but everything seems to have a strange quality, as though doubled, or having a rainbow outline if Tenacity looks at things out of the corner of his eye, without focusing on them. Some sense—not scent, not hearing, not direction, but something entirely not his and beyond his comprehension—reminds him that this place is not a physical place.

Judging by the dazed expression on the faces of his companions, they are experiencing something similar.

‘Are you…’ Tenacity clears his throat. ‘Their armour might have night vision.’

‘It is not a _physical_ darkness,’ Roy says. If anything, he looks even more uncomfortable than Tenacity feels. ‘It is… darkness of the spirit, for the lack of a better word. Their equipment can’t deal with it—but I doubt it would hold them off for long. The nightmares they’ve conjured—or rather, triggered—have no such limitations. We must plan for defence.’

‘Do we have an idea on how to wake the dreamers all up _and_ not have this place collapse?’ Zach asks. ‘Because I think, when it collapses, we all might find ourselves in the middle of nowhere, without an atmosphere. Me and Sean have armour, and you, the suits—but the dreamers don’t have either.’

Innocence’s and Roy’s gaze meet. Tenacity can tell they are communicating—not in words, but through that link the three (four?) of them share.

‘We might have an idea,’ Innocence says a little distractedly, then he and Roy go to the corner of the room, speaking in hushed voices—though Tenacity suspects Roy might be using some ability to have a little privacy also. He doesn’t mind—he smiles to himself at their shared connection, at Innocence’s hesitation and Roy’s put aside for now.

He catches Zach smirking. Maybe he should stop beaming so wide. His face grows hot, and he turns his gaze quickly to his companions—just when Innocence and Roy finish their conversation.

‘We do have an idea,’ Innocence says, glances at Roy again—not in hesitation, but with fondness, then back at them. ‘We speculate that, if this place operates by narrative logic, then we shall do as though it were a story. And if it were a story, I…’ He pauses, cheeks colouring. ‘If I were its writer, I would wake them up at sunrise.’

‘If I’m keeping the time right,’ Roy continues, ‘then we have several hours, physical time, before Ganymede will come from behind Jupiter’s shadow and turns to the Sun.’ Temperance clacks his jaws, and Roy nods. ‘So I’m right, Temperance, thanks. I’d like you to start the countdown when we begin.’

Sean chuckles—Tenacity thinks it’s the first time he’s heard him doing that. ‘This is rather simple and ingenious—but, not to sour it, Ganymede, its inhabited part, is Auroran, and many of the dreamers are Martian-born, even, and you all know the relationship we have with the sunrise and the Sun, however distant it might be here.’

Innocence nods. ‘We have considered it—but the narrative balance, the positive symbolism of the sunrise is more ancient. We have to take the risk.’

‘See if it overrides Martian fears,’ Roy adds. ‘To quote my former mentors, “If you have several theories, choose the most beautiful”. I have taken the possible influence of Martian lore into account and I have a solution for that also, as well as for the problem pointed out by Zach.’

Zach quirks a brow—almost as perfect as his partner. ‘What, are you going to pull all of us through the Transmigration Gate?’

Roy looks away and replies, ‘As one of the possible solutions, though it’s not my primary solution. We should work on our defence strategy now.’

‘What about the Streumonic creatures?’ Innocence asks.

Roy frowns. ‘I… didn’t think about them. I apologise. You are right, Innocence, we must protect them and get them free also.’ His gaze moves aside. Nobody speaks as he thinks. Then he looks at them again. ‘I have ideas that would include them. But I will become even more visible to Sadalsuud, to the Streumonics—which… might overwhelmed them.’

‘I will assure them it is well, if need be,’ Innocence nods.

‘We can harass the insurgents,’ Zach says. ‘Hold them back while you are doing… whatever you intend to do.’

‘No, Zachariah,’ Sean says. ‘Sadly, we need to bring them out, too, as we discussed, and I assume our brother needs them close.’

‘Your brother,’ Roy says, ‘does need that. I need you to herd them here—but not too close that they’d be able to harm the dreamers.’

‘What about the other hunter?’ Tenacity asks. He _knows_ that Roy is leaving out many details, and he doesn’t want to pressure Roy, but… ‘What do you intend to do, Majesty?’

Again Roy looks away, and across the link Tenacity feels that Roy shuts himself away from them, hiding something. Or maybe simply unsure, or uncomfortable and unwilling to let his emotions spread to them.

‘I will need to find the dreamers,’ Roy says at last, blatantly ignoring Tenacity’s question. ‘These,’ he gestures at the mirror-walls, ‘are nothing but reflections, pictures. The dreamers themselves are hidden still. And I need to make this place… my own without crushing anyone. This way, I will guide us out. Otherwise, when the dreamers wake, this place would bury you all within. I will be occupied, but try to aid the defence efforts.’

Tenacity shakes his head. He would have touched Roy’s hand, had he been certain it might be welcome. ‘Don’t worry. We will manage it for as long as you need. I will be the second line of defence, then; while our knights are herding the flock, I will make sure the insurgents don’t do too much damage and don’t get too close. And Innocence…’ There is determination on Innocence’s face, the one Tenacity has come to admire. They will have rest, later, he promises silently to himself and to them. Away from this. ‘I think it’s best that you stay here, with Roy, the dreamers and the Streumonic creatures, should they appear. The third line.’

Innocence frowns—then his face smooths out. ‘You… want me to be the barrier between them and violence.’

Spirits. And Aurora nearly killed Innocence in the meat-grinder. ‘Yes. Not only for your soldiering, but most importantly for your artistry and for your kindness. I believe the goodness in you can comfort and protect them.’ Before Innocence protests, he adds, ‘There are plenty of fighters here, kitten. There are not enough people who _create_.’

Innocence is silent, then nods. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Sean smiles. ‘It’s all anyone can ask for. And I think this whole plan is as good as we can get.’ The staff is in his hands again, and with a flick of his wrist—rather theatrical in its seeming simplicity—he turns it into its full length.

Roll rolls his eyes.

‘I admit,’ Sean says with a smug smile, ‘I am rather curious whether you intend to stay in this attire, brother.’

Roy rolls his eyes again. ‘No, I’m going to take it all off and scare Sadalsuud with my exceptional physique, _brother_,’ he says acerbically.

It makes Sean smile wider, dirtier.

Right until the next blink, when suddenly Roy is holding a staff and strikes it on the floor with a low sound that reverberates through the fabric of the universe—and changes himself.

‘Ah,’ says Sean rather flatly, ‘and which one of us is a show-off, brother dearest?’

Tenacity can’t tear his gaze away.

It is an attire that belongs on an ancient scroll, or a mural, a mosaic—and so striking in reality: snaking cables covering Roy toe to chin that Tenacity at first takes for exposed muscles, only dark-grey; they come to the back of Roy’s head also, like locks or tight braids. It doesn’t give Roy—not a very big man to begin with—additional bulk, but it strikes him into a vision of physical power. His legs are covered to the knee by sandy-gold pants, more weathered, bleached by elements than dyed, a little wide but tight at the bottom, reminding Tenacity of the pants customarily worn by Noctians. Roy’s body is draped with a long, broad piece of cloth of striking blue, so vivid it should be impossible. It is simply thrown over Roy’s left shoulder and caught at his waist by a thin strip of leather. On his right shoulder rests a golden—it might be brass, but it gives off a strange gleam—pauldron without a twin on the left shoulder, and golden plates cover Roy’s right arm, fitted perfectly, ending with smaller plates over the back of his palm—and long claws.

Tenacity’s gaze flicks between Roy’s face and his staff. The staff is gleaming white as though light is surrounding it at all times; it is longer than Roy is tall, and is topped with three prongs, between which sits… something. A crystal, hovering in the space between them—or maybe not a crystal at all. It is emitting blue light edged with darkness, or maybe it’s darkness with light at the edges. The other end of the staff makes Tenacity consider the word ‘glaive’, or rather, its cousins, for it is a long—maybe the length of Roy’s forearm—rather thin blade with an elegant curve. The staff is a weapon and a tool of guidance both.

Roy’s face is covered with a mask—or maybe it is painted, because it’s fitted perfectly to Roy’s features, and yet it smoothes them also, makes them less… characteristic. It is unique and generic: a generalised idea of a human face—and yet uniquely Roy’s face at the same time, the wide mouth and high cheekbones and the dip on the chin. It is gleaming-white also, covering him completely, its mouth in a beatific non-smile, its eyes closed.

Tenacity _knows_ it’s Roy, underneath it all. Roy appears taller, more powerful, more imposing—and precursors to this pose Tenacity has seen already. Hidden until now.

It is everything, Roy and not-Roy.

Tenacity wonders whether the lips of this mask would be cold or warm if he touched them.

The vision tilts his head, looking right at Tenacity. He drops his gaze, face burning.

The white-robed Cynicle steps to Roy and says something… red? Then blue, gold, swirls of both, a speck of white—so fast and confusing that Tenacity’s head spins, and he closes his eyes but sees it anyway. It plays in his head: flutes, chimes, drums…

Roy replies: red, red tinted with blue, white, strings, strings, glow, blue, darkness, red. They link hands, Roy holding carefully, probably to avoid doing damage with the claws. ‘You don’t have to,’ Roy says at last in a way that Tenacity understands. ‘I won’t leave you stranded, I promise, but you’ve seen enough fighting already.’

‘Let us. We wish it,’ the Cynicle intones.

Roy nods. ‘Then it will be so. Fear me not.’

‘Will you stand with us, Brother Hound?’ rasps another voice.

Tenacity turns to see a Carnophage. Even though they look like the one Roy let go in peace, Tenacity can tell they are different—and yet, related to that one. He can smell it.

He grins. ‘You are my people also. We will stand together.’

Another moan tears through.

Roy looks at them. ‘It’s time.’ He folds his legs, lowering himself onto the floor at the foot of the bed effortlessly, gracefully. He puts the staff-glaive down also, in front of himself, keeps his right hand on his lap and brings his left up, holding his palm open.

The bedroom walls unfurl like petals of a giant flower, with the bed at the centre.

They are at the highest point in the dream-dome, and the whole expanse is visible from here—and yet Tenacity has a sensation that this a deception, that the dome is much smaller, it’s that optical tricks make it look as vast as the real thing.

A third moan rumbles through. It is not a sound anymore, but a ripple, an ache, like that vague ache in muscles and bones at the onset of an illness. It crashes against the flower-room like a wave on a shore, and Tenacity feels the mist from it, sicklish, clammy—the sweat of the illness.

‘We will start herding them’ Sean says, walking to the petal that faces the direction of the moan’s source.

‘Sadalsuud won’t discriminate,’ Roy says in their minds. ‘Trying to get to me. I am very… bright right now, so the darkness won’t stop it—but the nightmares will attack it. It might kill the insurgents.’

‘And it’ll make matters worse,’ Zach mutters. ‘Don’t worry, brother. We’ll do our best.’

‘I can’t ask for more. Don’t worry about spending your energy—I will fuel you. You have my blessings. Go.’

When Sean turns, he raises his staff—and then with the next step, two doubles of him, framing him from both sides, make that step also. With the next step, there are more, and more, and more, until there are eight with Sean leading them. Identical, they are simplified copies, mere sketches of Sean, but Tenacity supposes that even sketches would be enough.

The knights depart, making leaps so wide and high that they would have been impossible even for them _out there_—but entirely possible _here_, especially with Roy’s blessing.

Tenacity turns to Innocence. Innocence looks briefly away, then at him—then throws his arms around him. Tenacity tenses in surprise, then forces himself to relax, though his blood has started rushing at the scent of a fight.

‘Don’t do anything… stupid,’ Innocence murmurs.

Tenacity briefly closes his eyes, wraps an arm around Innocence, inhales his earthly scent. ‘I won’t. I’m very reasonable, actually, didn’t you know?’

‘Mhm.’

He nuzzles Innocence’s hair. ‘I won’t kill. Protect him, Innocence.’

‘I will.’

They part, and Tenacity makes a few steps back, unable to turn away from them: Roy, still like a statue but for the soft rise and fall of his chest; Temperance by his side, head on the front paws, plates shimmering with lightnings; Innocence, lowering himself by Roy’s other side, and opening his journal. Of course. Everything is possible here—especially for a creator.

Tenacity grins, turns his back to them and leaps down from the petal.

He locates his other people right away: two lines facing the danger. The front is all mighty Carnophages and many-armed Manducae, most of them crimson. The second line are Cynicles, all in red except for one, each holding a machine gun as though it weighs nothing here.

He considers whether he should fit in the second line, with his rifle, or the front, with a blade. He decides on the former. He will switch to the blade when the time comes.

He stands shoulder to shoulder with the white-robed Cynicle.

That Carnophage who is kin to the one they let go, walks on springy legs along the front line. Tenacity can’t see them all, but he knows there are twice as many Streumonics as there are dreamers.

‘Front line, group up by sixes and fives. Leave gaps between groups for the gunners,’ the Carnophage commands, and they obey swiftly, as though they’ve been doing it their whole lives.

Who’s been here for a long time, with a great experience in command a tactics? Tenacity can name at least two. And others also.

‘Gunners! Suppressive fire only. Remember: try to avoid fatal injuries. Your task is to cover the front line and the knights, but not to scare away the insurgents!’

Tenacity’s blood sings. He’s good at finding people, he likes investigating. But this? The pure thrill of a fight, of a hunt? He lives for it. He was made for this—to hunt and to protect.

Another moan. It shakes the ground, and, away from Roy’s tight bubble, they are shaken also. Tenacity plants his feet wide to keep his balance, catches a red-clad Cynicle beside himself.

He can feel the knights engaged in swift combat. He can see their distant figures, Sean’s surrounded by sparks and the silver arcs of his staff, his doubles engaged on their own, imperfect; and Zach a quick shadow, with bursts of fire and occasional lightning. Tenacity feels another swift one, frantic but powerful, trying to get to its prize and frustrated by obstacles.

And then the buildings crumble, folding like paper, and they see… _that_.

The nightmares.

Tenacity looks up, and up, and up. He has to force himself to look. ‘Fuck, a Deus Ex would be appropriate here,’ he mutters to himself. The giant Streumonic creature would probably be not even nearly enough, but still.

The nightmares are _huge_.

‘Don’t we have one?’ the white-robed Cynicle says.

He thinks of the mask and the mismatched eyes—and grins. ‘In a way.’ He holds his cross-rifle to the white-robed Cynicle. ‘Take it. I think I’ll be more useful at the front.’

They accept the rifle with both hands and nod.

He steps forward into the gap in a group of Carnophages. _‘Ranny? Can you keep the count and come here?’_

**I’ll leave the count to Roy.**

A few leaps—and he is… They are…

** _‘We are.’_ **

We grin, growing taller, rolling our muscles. We look around at us. We are not afraid. We have someone to protect. Someones. We are enough. We have purpose.

We let out a howl—and leap at the nightmares. We see, in our mind, when at the same time the serene white mask switches to one terrifying, a warrior’s roar in its features, crimson and golden flowing in ornate swirls over its surface, changing, changing.

It leads us. We are tunes, melodies, timbres, tones, accords—that one of us makes us into a song. Nothing can stand against us.

We let ourselves be guided by it. The blessing burns on our forehead, hands card through our fur, play on our plates—we are content, complete. We protect.

We must protect those others beyond and inside the nightmares. They are we also, even though we don’t like it much. But we must take us from the nightmares, take us away, out.

Time has no presence here. Time is with the one guiding us, malleable, and we are here, and we see… everything. We tear through nightmares, we shoot, we strike with a staff, we send lightning arcs.

We are out there, writing all of it happening, writing every bit, ensuring that nobody dies. Tragedy is a powerful plot device—but hope even more so, and so we write it, over and over and over and over, all our heart goes in it even when it bleeds. We hope, and we write our hope. For us who fight, for us who cannot, for us who choose not to, for us who can only survive.

Ah, dear reader, we wish you find out what it is like, to be with your kin not by blood but by the desires and movements of your heart.

And then, the sun rises.

But the story doesn’t end with it. Oh, it doesn’t end at all.

Tenacity stumbles, ready for the choking sensation without the atmosphere—but it doesn’t come. The feeling of sunrise is _here_, on his skin, and his Martian ancestry compels him to run—even though it’s cold and dark, the Sun just a distant thing; Jupiter is looming huge, covering half the sky even though it _can’t_ be. It is close in reality, but not that close.

And the mass of the nightmares is still here. Dark as the end of light, it’s still _here_—and ‘here’ now is the physical world. It grows, grows, uncontrollable, detached from those who spawned it, even though the dreamers are here and most of the insurgents are knocked out.

Roy rises to his feet. The robe isn’t blue, but blood-crimson, heavy, soaked from the bottom up; his face is impossible to look at without one’s heart stopping in fear—but the nightmares have no heart and no fear, no consciousness; they simply are-not, and their purpose is to destroy.

They lunge—and Roy leaps into the air, the light on his staff blinding—a speck against the darkness, both the Sun and the Shadow, covering them, protecting them.

But then, no longer a speck.

He is _everything_.

Enormous, he blots out the body of Jupiter; dark, he sucks in the light of the distant Sun and the stars. He glows. He is a myriad of things, rage incarnate. He lunges and strikes—and changes, changes, changes, changes before their very eyes: now, a great dragon, body long and serpentine, undulating in the air; now, a stag, charging with antlers lowered; now, a storm of sand and lightning, howling; now, an armour-clad warrior, taller than the tall men, too heavy for the world to bear. Now, this. Now, this. Now, this. Now, this…

The nightmare is no more.

But it doesn’t stop.

Tenacity goes mad. It feels so—it should be so.

He sees them. They are so enormous that light bends around them—and yet there is no curvature about them; they are not wrapped around the planet—they exist _through_ it. The planet exists in them. Ganymede, Jupiter, the Sun, the entire system, entire galaxy, entire universe—and beyond. In their body, through their body, Tenacity peers into other dimensions, other... modes of being, all possibilities, all times—he can’t look away.

He is them, and they are him. He is just a convergence of cause and reason, past actions and present thoughts, matter and energy—he consists of them. He is a fragment of their being, temporary, a speck.

But there is another such speck. Walking toward them, reaching out. He can feel Innocence’s fear, but more than that, love. Worry.

‘It’s over, Roy. It’s over. Please, return?’

An eye, bigger that Jupiter, bigger than the Sun, than a black hole, peers at Innocence. In its depths, stars are born and burn and die.

And then, it’s over.

Tenacity moves before his mind clears. They catch Roy together. He is surprisingly heavy, nearly bringing both of them down, but Tenacity attributes it to Roy being boneless right now. He’s shaking also, and the metallic scent about him is accompanied by the more prosaic acidic sweat and the sweetness of blood pouring from his nose and mouth and from his eyes.

‘Oh fuck,’ Roy says quietly, and keeps repeating it, wet, ‘Oh fuck. Fuck.’

‘Roy,’ Innocence calls, an upward tilt at the end.

‘Yeah. I’m here.’ Roy lets out a sound like a sob, caught in his throat. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ Tenacity reassured him. He takes on most of Roy’s weight, not very certain it _is_ all right, and wraps an arm across Roy’s back. His hand meet Innocence’s. He can’t help but press his cheek to Roy’s shoulder, breathing him in. The blood has stopped almost immediately, but the scent lingers. Tenacity doesn’t like it.

Roy wipes his cheek on his sleeve—his leather jacket. It’s going to stain.

‘Do you need medical help?’

Tenacity… No, Temperance bounces past them, chittering excitedly. Dandolo smiles, patting them on the head. They are the only person Tenacity knows who doesn’t need to reach _up_ to do that. ‘Hello, Temperance.’

Roy licks his bloodied lips. It is messy, but Tenacity doesn’t care, Roy is one of the two most beautiful creatures in every world even smeared with blood. Maybe… even more beautiful for that.

‘Shut up, Tenacity, you are biased,’ Roy grumbles, as Innocence burns to the tips of his ears.

Tenacity grins. ‘I’m not denying it.’ Roy is still leaning on them. He doesn’t seem to want to move away yet. Tenacity doesn’t want to let go.

Dandolo and what looks like two or three full caravans, including the Palatial Guard with their spears and crossbows, stand there, looking rather confused. Some of them have their helmets on, others hold them in their hands awkwardly, as though unsure of what to do with them. Dandolo doesn’t look confused.

Temperance trots off to greet those merchants he knows and get acquainted with those he doesn’t.

Roy lifts his head. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Language,’ Dandolo says amiably. ‘I am Dandolo, a travelling merchant, and these,’ he spreads his arms, ‘are my people.’

Which is entirely obvious to anyone who’s ever seen Noctian caravaners. Dandolo’s gaze darkens as it stops on Tenacity. ‘My friend, Temperance sent me a signal, and I came as soon as I could. How are you?’

Oh. It must have been when they disappeared from the grid while exploring the caves.

‘Came with so many people?’

Dandolo casts his eyes down. ‘I admit I was very worried. When we came here, we… found ourselves on the surface, and without a threat to our breathing.’ He looks at Roy.

Tenacity wonders just how much Dandolo knows, or heard. Of the insurgents provoking tensions in Aurora and between Mars and Ganymede. Of the knights and their secret project. Some rogue knights, former knights find their home in Noctis. One of such was Dandolo’s mentor.

‘What,’ Sean rasps, ‘about the blockade?’ He’s leaning heavily on Zach—though Zach looks like he also has a problem keeping his eyes open and his body up.

Dandolo doesn’t even seem surprised at the knights’ presence. ‘There was a blockade—but it was failing. Your brother was all but comatose when I boarded the vehicle. He is resting in my sandsail now.’

Sean closes his eyes. ‘Thank you.’

‘And,’ Dandolo adds, ‘you are welcome to rest there, too. We have _medeghi_. Medics.’

‘Thank you,’ Sean repeats more firmly. Zach squeezes his hand.

‘All right,’ Roy murmurs, ‘you are accounted for. But where is—’

‘Here, brother.’

Tenacity raises a brow at the voice—and then both brows, at the secretary’s attire.

**She is a rogue knight also. I told Roy, but he asked me not to tell you. Sorry.**

_‘You are a good boy, Ranny. Don’t worry about it.’_

Temperance shakes his head, moving to one of the guards for pets. Tenacity wonders whether one of the fully-armoured guards is Frances themself, come to hit him on the head for being an idiot.

Mary is wearing armour as bulky as Sean’s, though she is much shorter in height and the design of the armour is different. A helm with short horns rests at her hip. There is a scattering of golden stars on her breastplate, like drops of paint, and Tenacity thinks it might be a constellation, but fuck him if he recalls which one.

**Tembin. Libra. She was a Monk.**

_‘The rank of Venerable?’_

**Yes.**

He wonders how old she is. How old all of them might be.

Roy straightens up, steps away from them. ‘Sister. Mary. Thanks for answering my call.’ They lock hands, communication turning to the level beyond words, electric arcs flying between them.

Tenacity’s hand is squeezed by Innocence. He’s holding his journal in the other. ‘I wrote it all,’ Innocence says quietly. He sounds dazed. Astonished.

Tenacity changes hands, wraps one over Innocence’s shoulders, pulls him close. ‘Yeah. Yeah. You protected him.’

Innocence turns his head up to him, blue eyes huge and soft and conveying more than Tenacity deserves. ‘I saw you and Ranny…’

He nods, forces out a smile. ‘We were.’ He can still feel it, the memory stored in his bones. Being bigger, shaped differently, being… together. Two-in-one. But worry creeps up his spine. Between himself and Roy, and… everything that has happened, he’s certain that Innocence won’t forget it like a dream, but Tenacity isn’t sure Innocence would want to stay. Would choose them.

Tenacity doesn’t want it to be over. The case—sure, but not _this_.

‘I don’t want it to be over also,’ Innocence says, just between them. He laces their fingers, and Tenacity is grateful for it beyond words.

‘We’ll see,’ he manages to say, squeezing Innocence’s shoulder.

Roy and Mary break away. The knights shamble closer, Sean using his staff like a simple walking stick.

‘There is a facility not far from here,’ Roy says, wiping at his mouth again and frowning at his sleeve. ‘The dreamers, the insurgents and Sadalsuud are there.’

Dandolo tilts his head, his gaze flicks to Tenacity briefly. ‘Am I right in thinking that those persons are the ones who disappeared recently on Ganymede?’

‘Them and many more,’ Roy agrees. ‘Dandolo, I’d like to ask you to help them reach home. Not all of them are from Ganymede, and those who are not, are P.O.W.s. I understand, however, that you might not wish to tangle yourself in politics.’

Dandolo tips his chin up. Tenacity wonders—is certain—that Roy sees Dandolo for what he truly is. ‘We would be happy to help however we can, and we know how to do it discreetly.’

‘Please,’ Sean says, ‘take care of our brother, too. Tell him… I will contact him later.’

Dandolo nods. ‘I’ll be most honoured.’

‘And good luck with that,’ Zach says. ‘He’s stubborn.’

Dandolo smiles fully. ‘I can be very stubborn, too, I am told, Zachariah.’

Zach’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth—then closes it with a click, looking at Dandolo with a flame of curiosity in his eyes.

‘We’ll take care of Sadalsuud,’ Sean says, as though the mystery of how exactly a merchant knows their identity doesn’t worry him at all. ‘And we’ll need to coordinate on the issue of insurgents. I’d like to hear the general and the governor’s opinion, but I am not inclined to let those people slip away without judgement.’

Mary nods. ‘I will return the Ganymedian citizens, then, and we will proceed from there, Master Sean.’ She looks at Roy. ‘The general is among them?’

‘She is,’ Roy sighs. His eyelids are drooping. ‘All of them won’t remember the whole thing, only… dream-like bits.’

‘I’m starting to get it fuzzy, too,’ Zach murmurs.

‘Good,’ Roy says. ‘It’s better if you let it go.’

Tenacity, himself, doesn’t want to.

Innocence squeezes his hand. Across the link, he feels their wish resonating. He hopes Roy feels it also.

Roy looks all of them over, then nods. And then, there is the gleaming staff-glaive in his hands. He strikes it down.

The story has ended.


	12. The Dreamers

Tenacity sets the diagnostics of ‘Coccum’ going the moment they set foot in the truck. The systems come online, pinging him. He blinks notifications off.

Roy is leaning again, though on Temperance this time, with Innocence holding his hand. Together, they guide him to sit down on the sofa.

‘I’d like to…’ Roy sways, grabs the armrest. ‘Okay, shower later, then.’

Innocence fills a glass with water, gives it to Roy.

‘Thank you,’ Roy croaks, drinking in small sips.

Innocence reaches hesitantly—then strokes Roy’s head. There is still blood caked on his face. Like another mask: three broad stripes on his cheeks, another on his chin. Roy closes his eyes.

Tenacity leans on the counter. He should probably start the engine, get them into orbit or set course to ‘Enki’. Maybe start cooking something, or composing his report. Thinking up the lies to cover Roy and Innocence. But he feels too fidgety, unable to focus right now, adrenaline and whatever the fuck fuelled him, now rushing away.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything,’ Roy says after emptying half the glass. ‘I had a rough outline, but then the story went its own way, and I let it carry me.’

Innocence smiles, though it’s tight around the edges. ‘I can relate.’ His fingers brush over the notches on Roy’s temples. Roy doesn’t move away.

‘I’m not upset with you for that,’ Tenacity says. He can feel Roy’s worry, rolling, choking through the link, even as none of it shows on Roy’s face. ‘Are you all right? What was there…’

Roy sighs, leaning ever so slightly into Innocence’s touch. ‘I…’ He frowns. ‘I can erase it from your memories. You will not… You will not know me. I’m sorry I forced you into the bond. It will fade on its own when I’m gone.’

‘I am _not_ sorry for that,’ Innocence says. ‘And I don’t want you to erase yourself out of my head. Roy, you didn’t force us. I don’t think I have processed my losses yet, but being bonded to you is not a loss. Unless you don’t want it yourself.’

‘I was always alone. It’s hard not to be.’

Tenacity doesn’t reach out. He wants to, so badly, to reassure Roy—but he doesn’t want to overwhelm him. ‘You said you’d sing if I play. I’ll play for you. You know, it’s so much. Me, being a Streumonic, Innocence losing his family, and you… We don’t have to process it immediately—or forget about it entirely, or decide right away. Besides, I still need to sort through the aftermath, file a report, get our payment. Whatever you decide, if you want to stick together,’ he looks at them both, ‘even if for a while, I’d be happy with that.’

It will be days, maybe more, before they actually feel this is over. Days before it will be over in every sense, the payment provided, the cover-up stories collaborated with the knights and the Ortegas and Dandolo.

‘There will be others,’ Roy says, fingers stroking along the wall of the glass, igniting the glowing bottom, ‘who would try to hunt me. I won’t hide. I just want to live my life.’

‘It isn’t right,’ Innocence says firmly. ‘To be pursued for what you are. You are a person, you have the right to live however you want. I know… I’m not naive. The world isn’t just. It makes me angry, though. I won’t let people hurt you, Roy. You’ve been through enough.’

Roy looks at him. ‘As have you. I feel safer, with all of you. But I don’t want to bring danger. If I need to go…’

‘Then we won’t hold you,’ Tenacity assures him, as heavy as it feels. ‘I won’t hold any of you. I…’ He sweeps his hair back.

He wants to be with them—be _theirs_. It feels right. But what does he know about them? The important parts, yes: who they are, what their fears are, what their hopes are. Maybe it’s enough for a start.

‘I’d like us to be together,’ he says at last. Then realises how it sounds, and heat rushes up his neck. ‘I mean… I’m not a good guy. But it’d be nice. Ranny likes the two of you.’

Temperance clicks his jaws and rubs his head on Innocence’s shoulder, making Innocence snicker. Innocence lowers his eyelids when he smiles. Tenacity likes that very much.

He catches Roy looking between them, surprise morphing into understanding in his Martian eyes. His head tilted.

The heat crawls up to Tenacity’s cheeks.

Then, Roy gets up. ‘What I want to do right now, is take a shower.’

‘Hey, don’t use up all the water!’ Tenacity calls. He can’t help grinning, a knot easing in his chest. Can’t ignore how his heart races, eager and light. How their hearts race together.

Roy stops in the doorway. He’s a mess, bloodied and exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed and his lips dry. Innocence looks like he’s fighting a doze also, and Tenacity doubts he himself appears fresh.

‘I’m a fucking god,’ Roy says, head held high. ‘And one of you is a dream, and the other, a creator. There’s nothing the three of us cannot do together.’

Temperance chitters, and Innocence pats his side. ‘The four of us, Ranny, the four.’ He looks up.

Tenacity smirks. He gets to his feet, making his way to the fridge. They still must have some stew and soup left.

It will take time. He needs it also to understand what he wants, what he feels. And maybe he should say it. Even if they might have time, Innocence and Roy are not mind-readers, bond or not. He wants to voice his doubts, his fears, his hopes; let them know they are not alone in this. Say it without putting a pressure on them, or expectations, and listen to them. Finding words won’t be easy—but he is prepared to work for it. And maybe, one day, they won’t need words at all.

They are worth it.


End file.
